Daring In a Blue Dress (24 page)

“That doesn't even make sense,” Mercy replied, scowling. “Not that I'm surprised, since nothing you've said since Alden was almost impaled on the window railings has made sense.”

Alden moved over next to Mercy, wrapping an arm around her waist, the better to whisper in her ear not to make a scene with Lisa.

“Oh!” Clearly, Lisa was outraged by Mercy's comment. “You are so mean to me! I've tried to be as nice as I can, and you're just mean in return. I told my husband about you, and he said you're just jealous of me. So you can just put that in your jealous pipe and smoke it.”

“What on earth are you talking—wait, husband? You're married?” Mercy stopped scowling and shot Alden a questioning look. “You never mentioned you were married.”

“Of course not. It's a secret.” Lisa was speaking in a singsong manner now, her words sloppy with extra sibilants. The Swede in whose lap she was sitting was also clearly well past sober, because he gave Lisa a smacking kiss on the cheek and told her he didn't care if she was married to a hundred men—she was still welcome to sleep in his tent.

“An' what's more, I think he's right. You
are
jealous,” Lisa added, jabbing a finger toward Mercy. “And you're bossy, too.”

“Did you know she's married?” Mercy asked Alden.

He shook his head. “I'm just as surprised as you. I can't imagine why my sister-in-law would send her to me if she was already married. Perhaps Alice didn't know.”

“Yeah,” Mercy said slowly, and was about to add something to that when a shout went up, almost deafening them. The Berserkers declared it was time to dance, and someone brought out a set of speakers for his phone.

“And this is where the party ends,” Alden said.

“Things do look like they are getting out of hand,” Mercy agreed.

With Vandal's assistance, and Mercy's blatant shoving of men outdoors, they managed to get everyone who wasn't currently residing at the gatehouse outside and returned to the various tents that now dotted the front lawns of Bestwood.

“I'll put the diva to bed,” Mercy said as Vandal carried Lisa, now well plastered, upstairs to her room.

“You sure? I don't mind doing it,” Vandal said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Are you sleeping in the stables?” Alden asked. “If you are, I'd rather you stay out there and keep an eye on the outbuildings. We don't need any more fires or other incidents.”

“That was my thought as well,” Vandal said, reluctantly dumping Lisa onto her bed. With quick precision, Mercy removed her shoes, skirt, and blouse, leaving Lisa in her underwear and a tank top.

“We're going to have a little talk, you and I, in the morning,” Mercy warned, throwing a blanket on top of the prone woman.

Lisa gurgled something, and curled into a fetal ball.

“I hope she has a hangover to end all hangovers
tomorrow,” Mercy said when they returned to their own room. “Which reminds me—you haven't commented on the fact that I have not pestered you about getting the police to talk to her.”

“I may not have commented, but I did notice that fact,” Alden said, sitting on the edge of the bed and wondering when he had last felt this exhausted.

“Good. I decided that I wouldn't pursue it until after the shindig tomorrow, since the evidence has been destroyed anyway.”

“What evidence? The house?”

“Yeah. It's just too bad that we couldn't get back to those light switches to dust them with the stain. I'm sure Lisa's hands would have proved that she was the guilty party.”

“But guilty of what?” He watched with interest as Mercy disrobed, neatly folding each garment she took off and placing it tidily away in the wardrobe. He wondered if his habit of just dumping his clothes on the nearest chair annoyed her, and if so, whether it would cause strain in their marriage in years ahead.

His brain stumbled to a halt. Marriage? Since when was he thinking of marrying Mercy? He narrowed his eyes on her as she tidied his things up, noting how graceful she was, how intuitive to his desires—both carnal and otherwise—and, most of all, how her lovely shining self seemed to light up all the dark corners of his soul. Of course he would marry her! He didn't want her looking at another man the way she looked at him. The matter was settled.

“Obviously, of trying to do you in with the trapdoor in the gallery. But as to what she could be doing under the
house . . .” Mercy stood still, his newly purchased shirt in her hands. “You know, a thought occurred to me.”

“Oh?”

“It's kind of an out-there thought, so feel free to tell me I'm crazy.”

“I would never do that,” he said nobly. “At the worst, I might tell you that you were a bit mad, but never barking so.”

“Hee-hee. Barking mad is such an English phrase.” She set down his shirt, now neatly folded, and slipped into bed next to him. Unfortunately, her deliciously wicked nightgown had been lost in the fire, but he made a mental note to buy her a suitable replacement as soon as possible. “It's that stuff we found the other day. The wash bottle and the bit from an OTC package.”

He smiled to himself. Ever since his conversation with Tamarind, he'd been having some very startling thoughts, and now it appeared that Mercy was on the same track. “You think they are important?”

“I do.” She eyed him. “What if . . . what if rather than some homeless person hiding out in the passages who was allergic to dust, or old homes, or whatever, what if it was someone doing something specific in the passage?”

“Something specific like making drugs?”

Her eyes widened. “You think so, too?”

“I didn't until this evening, but now . . . aren't antihistamines and decongestants used in making methamphetamines?”

“I believe so. Now I wish I'd done some medical courses. Should we tell the police?”

“I think,” he said slowly, sliding a hand down her arm. She was clad in a tank top and a pair of knit shorts,
and he desperately wanted her naked, and in his arms. Or sitting astride him, telling him just how wonderful he felt. Or beneath him, moaning and writhing. “I think that they might already be thinking along those lines.”

“Good. If Lisa was cooking meth under the hall as well as tried to murder you, then she definitely needs to go to jail.”

He laughed, and pulled her down over his chest so he could kiss her properly. “She's been here less time than you have, sweetheart. I doubt if she could set up and dismantle a meth lab in that time without us knowing it.”

“Dammit, I hate it when you're right. Oh well. I guess I'm just going to have to make mad, passionate, wild bunny love to you so that you totally forget I even mentioned that. Oh!”

She slipped out of his embrace, much to his dismay.

He watched her kneel next to a new duffel bag. “And here I was enjoying the idea of mad bunny love. Why have you forsaken me for the charms of a bag, madam?”

She looked up, grinning. “I love it when you talk all ye olde English. I bought something for you in town the last time I was there, and what with all the stuff going on, I forgot to give it to you.”

“What is it?” he asked suspiciously when she did a seductive walk back to the bed, her hands behind her back. “It's not handcuffs, is it?”

“Of course not,” she said with a little snort of disgust before whipping her hands around to the front. “It's furry cuffs!”

“That is the same thing as a handcuff.”

“Nope.” She knelt on the bed, and wrapped the leather
and bright pink faux-fur restraint around his wrist. “This is a leather cuff. Handcuffs are made of metal and are hurty. This is nice and soft. And look, I bought yarn to use as a tie, so if you get panicky and freak out, you can break it and be free, although I really hope you don't, because I think you'll like this if you give it a chance.”

And that is how Alden found himself, some five minutes later, lying on his back, naked, his hands tied to the headboard, nervously watching Mercy shimmy her way out of her sleeping apparel.

“And just to make sure that you enjoy this . . .” She reached over the edge of the bed to a nightstand, pulling out a small bottle. “A little love potion of the slick type. I thought we would start the proceedings by me oiling you up and licking you off.”

Just like that, he was hard. It was an instantaneous event. . . . One moment he was his normal quiescent—although interested—self, and the next, he had a full-on erection.

“Do I need a condom?” he asked, his breath coming a bit short as she poured a little reddish oil into her hands, swishing it around on them.

“I don't think so. I'm on birth control, and now that we know each other better, it's not so vital, is it?”

“No. Definitely not. Absolutely not. We're good there.”

She grinned, and leaned over to kiss him. “You're babbling, my love.”

“I know. I can't help it. Are you going to use that oil, or just sit there holding it all night?”

“Anticipatory? That's part of the fun of having your hands tied. Now, let's see if you like this. . . .”

He liked it. He liked it very much, something he told her repeatedly as she rubbed the oil into his penis, her hands like fire, leaving little oily streaks that warmed on his flesh. She used her hands and mouth on him, causing him to thrash around on the bed, his entire body now an erogenous zone.

“This is exquisite torture,” he gasped at one point, when she was rubbing her breasts across his penis. “I want to make you stop, but at the same time, I never want it to end.”

“I told you it would be good,” she said, looking up. “It's the feeling of being helpless. Normally, I don't like that in sexual play, because, as a woman, we're almost always in the submissive role, but I have to say that the idea of having you run amok on me is enough that I want to ride you like a two-bit camel.”

“Ride me,” he begged, his hips thrusting upward when her hands did a slippery dance along his length. “Please god, if you have any mercy in your soul, ride me hard and ride me long.”

“Well, as you begged . . .”

“I did! I begged! I'll do it again if you want!”

“Then I guess I can give in to both our desires.” She positioned herself with her knees around his hips, rubbing the very tip of him against her womanly parts. He bucked upward, making her eyes widen when he entered her just a little bit. Without another word, she sank down on him, causing them both to moan in pleasure.

It didn't take long for either of them. Just as Alden was gritting his teeth, thinking of horrible things like boils and pustules in order to not leave Mercy behind, she arched back, her muscles gripping him in rippling
waves that ensured that even the most repulsive thoughts couldn't stop his orgasm. He jerked his hands down, snapping the yarn, and holding on to her hips as he pistoned, his mind and body one with the effort to pour himself into her.

When she collapsed down onto him, slick with perspiration and the body oil, he peeled off the wrist restraints, and wrapped his arms around her, capturing the wild beating of her heart against his chest, where his own raced madly.

“You are mine forever,” he murmured, kissing her forehead and eyes and cheeks and that adorable little chin. “I love you, and I'm never letting you go.”

“That's fine with me—wait, what?” She pushed herself back just enough to see him. “Did you say what I thought you said?”

“Yes.” He pulled her back down to where she belonged, next to his heart. “Go to sleep. I plan on waking you up in the middle of the night and tying
your
hands to the headboard.”

She giggled against him as he rolled onto his side, wiggling until she was comfortably smooshed up against him. “I don't suppose you'd like to repeat that?”

“Certainly. Go to sleep.”

She disengaged one hand and pinched him on the nipple. He swatted her behind, immediately followed by a caress. “That isn't what I meant, and you know it.”

“I know, but I'm a man. We have to sleep after sex.”

“That's the biggest cop-out in the world. Say it.”

He sighed, ruffling the hair on the top of her head. “Fine, but this is cutting into the time I will need to make you squirm with utter delight. I love you, my sweet
Mercy. You make me feel like a different man, a better man. You make me happy. You delight me on every level. Now go to sleep so I can show you later just how much I love you. You do have more yarn, yes?”

“Lots.”

“Good. We're going to need it.” He kissed the top of her head, allowing exhaustion to claim him.

F
ight Knight was in full swing by the time I made it out to Bestwood's garden.

Yellow police tape had been placed ten feet beyond the perimeter of the ruins, bolstered by hay bales, and tall orange traffic cones. Periodically along the yellow tape, signs that Alden and I had written warned visitors that they were straying into off-limits territory.

I turned my back to the black shell of the house, feeling that was something I couldn't cope with when the world lay out before me like a glittering, wonderful map of everything good and happy and sexy.

Approximately a hundred and twenty people milled around the garden, a good number of them in plate armor, while the others (mostly women) trotted around with various bits of plate and weaponry in their hands. The main list had been set up where Vandal's lesson
ring had been, with an assortment of lawn chairs, blankets, and coolers set up three rows deep around the edges. There were some children running around, but not as many as I'd expected. I speculated that they were left at home because of the potential injuries that might result from the fighting.

I waved at Alec when he passed by carrying two tubs of armor, smiled and greeted people who'd taken my classes and who were competing, and dodged my way around various men and women who were getting geared up for the various melee fights.

“Morning, Mercy. You look . . . good.”

I stopped when Fenice called to me from the stables.

“Thanks. I feel good.” I tried not to beam my happy “Alden loves me! Alden loves me!” vibes to everyone, feeling it would come across as unbearably smug.

But I hugged myself with the knowledge nonetheless. I was loved, really and truly loved. Not by a geeky kid in university, but well and properly loved by a man.

I loved Alden, and he loved me, and everything was going to be jim-dandy fine.

“Is something going on?” Fenice asked, giving me an odd look as I did a happy little twirl in my now somewhat ratty blue dress. I'd cleaned it up as best I could for the big event, since I felt it was my lucky dress. At least it felt lucky to me, and that's what luck was all about. “Is something . . . you're not . . . are you pregnant? I swear you're glowing.”

“Not pregnant,” I said with a laugh, and did another twirl before giving Fenice a big hug. “Just in love.”

“Oh, that.” She rolled her eyes, and handed me the heavy canvas bag that held her backup bow, the one I'd
be using in my classes. “I'm glad you and Alden are happy, but are you going to be able to focus? The team competition is in twenty minutes, and since you're the only one on our team, it's vital you're ready to go. You can be spacey this afternoon, for the individual competition.”

“I'll focus, I'll focus. Promise. Just one more twirl, and then I'll go warm up.”

“No twirls. Twirls are forbidden at Fight Knight unless you are a ninja. Go warm up.” She pointed to the two archery butts that were designated for practice.

“Can I skip there, humming ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah'?”

Her lips thinned. “No skipping, no twirling. You are a professional.”

“I'm not.”

“You could be one if you applied yourself. You are an adult.”

“An adult who is in looove,” I all but sang.

“And you represent Hard Day's Knights, so no skipping, twirling, or any actions that a five-year-old girl might make.”

“Well, hell, now I can't even stick my tongue out at you,” I said, slinging the case's strap over my shoulder, and making a point of stomping my feet when I left.

“I hear that!” she called after me, which just had me giggling.

I lined up for the practice butts (the British are very serious about their queues), and managed to get five minutes of warm-up in before my group of four was called to do our best.

Alden, I knew, was getting geared up and receiving any last-minute instruction and advice from Vandal before his one-on-one battle, so I didn't expect to have
any supporters other than Fenice when I took up my borrowed bow.

“Competing for Hard Day's Knights,” the ring announcer yelled, holding up a clipboard with the schedule and contestants. “Mercedes Starling.”

There was a brief commotion at the edge of the ring, a metallic sort of commotion. As I lined my toes up on the official mark, I glanced over to see Alden clanking his way to the ring, fully armed, carrying his helm.

He held out a mail hand and gave me a thumbs-up. I grinned, and blew him a kiss.

Beside him, Fenice did a little jig of anger, and stabbed her finger toward the archery butt. The glare she sent my way could have taken paint off a barn door. I spread my grin to her, just barely refrained from blowing her a kiss, too (I didn't want her to have a fit right there in front of everyone), and instead turned to face the target.

The judge blew her whistle, alerting me that I had two minutes to shoot six arrows.

Breathe,
I remembered my old archery coach telling me before a competition.
Feel the air coming into your lungs, and exiting. Forget everything else but your breathing, and the target.

I lifted the bow, trying to push out all the jubilant feelings that rolled around inside of me, making me want to dance and sing and shout with happiness.

I breathed. As I drew air into my lungs, I lifted the bow upward until it was over my head, exhaling as I brought it back down, my other arm pulling the string back to my jaw as I did so.

For a split second, I didn't breathe. The whole world seemed to stop, my gaze narrowing on the center point
of the gold bull's-eye, exactly where I wanted to put the arrow. As I let my fingers relax, the string slipped past them, and I knew by the sound of the twang that the arrow was true.

Polite applause met my bull's-eye, along with some metallic clanging that I took to be Alden clapping. I locked another arrow into place, deciding where I wanted it to go in the bull's-eye (neatly alongside the first arrow), and I breathed.

I left the archery ring with a score of four bull's-eyes, and two in the next ring down, or a total of fifty-eight. I knew that wasn't good enough to win the competition (since the other archers had a lot more experience than me), but I was pleased with my result nonetheless.

And so was Fenice.

“Nicely done,” she said, buffeting me on the shoulder. “You did us proud. I'm almost tempted to let you keep that bow.”

“Oooh,” I said, clutching it hopefully to my chest.

“Almost,” she said, smiling as she walked away to help Vandal.

I looked for Alden, but he wasn't there. I tucked the bow away in the stable, made sure the doors were locked, and did a quick patrol of the area as suggested by Fenice. Most people had enough sense to avoid the outbuildings, but I did rumble a couple of kids and one couple who were old enough to know better.

“Seriously, people,” I told the shamefaced couple, shooing them toward the door of the shed. “You wouldn't do this in your own garden, would you?”

“Every Sunday!” the man said, making the woman give a nervous giggle.

“Well, it's not Sunday now, and if I catch you in there again, I'm going to tell Vandal.”

They left with only minor grumbling.

The crowd outside the melee ring was large, since most people came for that, and I had a hard time working my way around the various bodies to where the men were being readied to fight. As I rounded the far side, I realized that the reason I couldn't find Alden was that he was already in the ring.

Alden staggered back when the man—a veritable giant of a guy—slammed his shield across Alden's arm and chest. I ran for the other side, one eye on Alden while he took a hell of a beating, the other scanning the crowd for Vandal or Fenice. I found them both assisting one of Vandal's students into his armor.

“Who is Alden fighting?” I asked, knowing the lots weren't drawn for the matches until the last minute. “I missed the start. How is he doing—ow. Oh, that had to be unfair! Why aren't the judges stopping that huge man!”

“That's Dan Jacobs. He used to be regional champion five or six years ago, and that backhand to Alden's helm was a perfectly legal move,” Vandal said, shouting encouragement to Alden when the latter staggered forward and almost fell on his face. “Stay on your feet, man!”

“Is it legal to have a champion fighting a newbie?” I asked, clutching my hands together and wincing when the huge man kicked out, catching Alden on the knee. Alden swung around and slammed his shield into the man, sending him staggering to the side. “That seems wrong to me.”

“It would be if he was still a champion, but he's been out of competition for a few years due to back surgery,
so he's considered a beginner just like Alden. Shield up, Alden! Keep the damned shield up!”

I left Vandal and Fenice, and scurried along the crowds until I found a spot where I could push up to the edge of the hay bales that marked the ring.

“Beat the tar out of him!” I yelled over the sounds of the crowd shouting their own encouragement. “Knock him to the ground and stomp all over him! Kick him in the balls! Hack him to bits with your sword and dance a jig on the bloody remains!”

A hush fell over the crowd nearest me as I bellowed out the last sentence. I was caught by surprise when I noticed that everyone was staring at me.

“Um. Too far?” I asked the sea of startled faces turned my way.

“Newbies,” one woman said, shaking her head and turning back to the action.

“Sorry. I just wanted to give Alden some encouragement—oh, hell, it's over?”

The giant, who had knocked Alden to the ground right at the end of their allotted time, held out a hand and hauled him to his feet, the two men leaving the ring together in apparent accord.

I excused myself out of the crowd, and headed for the staging area where the combatants were armed and disarmed, almost stepping on Lisa, who popped up suddenly in front of me.

“Sugar! Just the person I've been wanting to see.” She looked a little worse for wear, her hair gathered up in a very messy bun, her clothes a bit wrinkled, and the scarf she wore knotted around her neck had a coffee stain on the end, no doubt from the latte she clutched
in her hand. She also wore sunglasses, which I suspected covered bloodshot eyes. “Have you seen Alden?”

“Yes, yes, I have,” I said obnoxiously, and put my hands on my hips, fighting hard to keep from outright accusing her of trying to murder him.

She clicked her tongue. “Honestly, Mercy, I don't know why you have to be such a bitch to me. All I want is to tell Alden that there are some people trespassing over there.”

I turned to look where she pointed. Two silver vans were parked on the far side of the remains of the house, with a group of four people standing together in a cluster evidently consulting.

“I know Alden doesn't want anyone to go poking around in the bits and pieces of the house. If you won't tell me where he is, then you can at least tell him that there are trespassers doing who-knows-what.”

“They aren't trespassers,” I said shortly, wanting to get past her to Alden to see how he was after his fight. “They're probably the fire investigators, or the police.”

“Police?” Her voice went a bit shrill, and she took a sip of her coffee to cover it. “Whatever are the police doing looking at a burned-up house?”

It cost me a lot, but I kept from telling her they were probably looking for signs she had been cooking meth in the walls. “I know they were waiting for it to be safe to investigate the cause of the fire. No doubt they're doing that.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” I swear she relaxed at the news, which troubled me. I had been trying to work out a reason why she would want to burn down the house, but couldn't come up with one, and now here she was relaxing when it came to the idea that people were going
to investigate the fire, just as if it had nothing to do with her.

“Well, dammit,” I murmured to myself when she left me without another word. “If it turns out I can't blame her for any of the evil things that have befallen Alden, I'm going to be very pissed.”

The next few hours slipped by without me being aware. There was Alden to see and beam loving looks to (and receive a few in return, which made me want to dance and sing all over again), and my former pupils to cheer on when they went into the archery ring. Alden and I helped out wherever possible, mostly with squire duties arming and disarming the various combatants, or pointing out where the portable toilets had been arranged (behind the stable, thank heavens), where drinking water was available, and where the catering company needed to set up their long tables of food, which the participants and their helpers alike descended upon like voracious wolves.

By early afternoon, I'd forgotten the people who were poking around the ruins of the house. I sat next to Lady Sybilla and Adams for a half hour, watching the various forms of melee fighting.

“I have to tell you that I'm a bit surprised you are enjoying such a bloody sport,” I told Lady Sybilla when one of the combatants had to be assisted out of the list, and was having the doctor attend to what appeared to be a broken arm.

She tilted her parasol so that she could pin me back with her pale blue gaze. “Why would I not enjoy medieval combat? It is, of course, upon the backs of knights just like these that our country was created. It is a noble sport, after all.”

“I guess so, but it's a bit . . .” I waved a hand around while I thought of the word I wanted. “. . . gory.”

“It is invigorating,” she said, turning her eyes back to the ring as the next two combatants—two women, this time—were announced. “I am very pleased that I had the foresight to bring these people here, and look forward to seeing them next year.”

“I don't know that there's going to be a next year,” I said slowly, my gaze searching the crowd for Alden. He'd told me at lunch that he had decided to accept Barry's offer for the land, assuming I had no objections to him using the profits to buy a house elsewhere.