Florida Knight (13 page)

Raven was rewarded for his efforts by being returned to the Feast Hall via Cleve Johnson’s golf cart—after they paid a visit to the shed
housing
the controls for the sprinkler system. The Feast Hall area was quiet now, the vendors standing in huddles, looking over the dripping mess, shaking their heads. Several had dug out towels and were drying themselves off, mopping up their now-empty display tables. Among them was Cat, her soaking wet nightshirt a sight to behold. She might as well have been naked. The excitement of the night, Raven’s speculations on how it happened, faded away. Forget queen or princess. Catriona MacDuff was a goddess.

He didn’t hear the ranger apologizing to the vendors, assuring them he had personally turned off the sprinkler system earlier in the day. Raven didn’t need to listen. He and Cleve Johnson had had a thorough discussion of the mysterious deluge while driving the golf cart to the rescue.

Raven held out his hand to Cat. “Come on, let’s go,” he said. “We’ve done all we can. It’s going to take sunshine to dry things out.”

Cat murmured a soft round of condolences to the vendors, offered her help in setting things to right in the morning. She did not take Raven’s hand. As he swung into step beside her, however, he had no trouble seeing her blue lips, the rigid set of her shoulders against the chill night. Raven peeled off his T-shirt, ignoring Cat’s protests as he pulled the dry shirt over her head.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, averting her eyes from the sight of his bronzed inches clad only in black brief and zippered boots. “You’ll freeze,” Cat added, almost sounding as if she cared.

“Well, maybe a little,” Raven conceded, “but I know how to fix it.” He folded an arm around Cat’s shoulders, tucked her into his side.

Cat stiffened, tried to jerk away. Raven held on tight. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “I’m only keeping us both warm ’til we get back to the tent. I never thought I’d think so longingly of a blasted sleeping bag.”

Cat withdrew into herself, refusing to allow her mind to function. There was nothing but the nearly pitch black night, the soft scuffle of sand, the warmth provided by Raven’s rugged body plastered to hers. No coherent thoughts, no fears, no emotion at all. No anger, no resentment of male dominance. No desire. Just the soothing noises of deep woods at night, the sound of their breathing—too harsh, too fast.

The lights on the wash house nudged her back to reality. If anyone saw them, it would be a boost to their cover story. The two of them cuddled together, one in a T-shirt, the other wearing only briefs. They looked as if they’d sneaked off into the woods for more privacy than the tent afforded. Cat winced. Even fate was conspiring against her.

No, not fate. Cat’s brain slipped back into gear. The ranger said he
had
personally turned the automatic sprinklers off. Therefore, this was another mysterious prank to be added to the odd list plaguing LALOC and the Medieval Fair circuit. But she wasn’t about to discuss it with a nearly naked man.

As their tent loomed up before them, Raven let her go. Cat ducked down into the gloom of the interior, Raven on her heels. She was cold, wet, tired. Panic surged back with a vengeance. “Turn your back,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am
–
uh
–
my lady. Do you mind if I crawl in my bag first?”

“Go ahead.” Cat found a towel, then rummaged through her pile of garb. She’d brought only one nightshirt, so for the rest of the night an old tunic would have to do. She glanced at Raven. There was enough light filtering in from the wash house to show his head firmly turned toward the far wall. Cat peeled off the two layers of T’s—both now soaking wet. She picked up the towel, hesitated, despising herself for her inner turmoil. She might as well have been a nun set down in a monastery. Her instinct was to turn her back to Raven while she toweled herself dry. Worldly cynicism decreed she couldn’t trust him. Warily, Cat compromised on a rapid dry from a three-quarter position which allowed her to keep one eye on
her
tentmate.

A swift pull, and the old tan linen tunic was over her head.
Heaven!
The simple comfort of being dry. Cat went outside, laid the towel and two T-shirts on top of the tent where they would catch the early morning rays of the
Florida
sun. They should be dry well before noon.

At last, cocooned in her sleeping bag, Cat had to face her errant thoughts. Raven’s touch—even while she was dripping wet—had burned. Tucked into his side, his arm around her shoulders, she had plunged into some strange nirvana of sensual
pleasure
, shutting out everything but his consuming warmth, his nearness, the wonder of being held. She’d forgotten what it was like to feel that good. Had she ever known? For with Raven she felt . . . perfectly safe. Even though common sense screamed that was the most foolish, misguided thought ever to pass through her pea-sized brain.

Hidden by the darkness, Cat allowed herself a tiny smile. She closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep.

Raven was still tossing and turning when the birds burst into joyous chorus and the sun penetrated the trees, shining off the Spanish moss dripping from the live oaks, illuminating the tent as if it were high noon.
Jesus!
What he’d give to be back in his sound-proof condo with heavy vertical blinds. Then he peeked at Cat, sound asleep, her blond hair splayed over the pillow. Raven recalled the
all
of her revealed by the soaking wet nightshirt. Okay, so there were worse places than an igloo tent containing a beautiful Amazon. His admiration turned to a glare. Things had to change. He couldn’t go on like this.

It’s a job, Turco. Just a job. You’ve been undercover before. That auto theft ring, the rental car scam . . . You need a new woman like a hole in the head. Particularly, a complicated mixed-up female like this one.

Raven groaned, heaved himself out of his sleeping bag. One good thing about being up with the birds. He had first dibs on the wash house.

Cat pried up one eyelid, then the other, following Raven’s long strides toward the restrooms. A shaving kit dangled at the end of one well-muscled arm. What would he think when he discovered there were no mirrors? She should have spoken up, offered her traveling mirror which could be hung from any convenient nail, branch, or loop of fabric.

But she’d wimped out, pretending sleep when his first faint stirrings had brought her instantly awake. The birds she was used to; a virile male body lying next to hers was a whole ’nother ballgame. She was no longer alone. She was terrified. She loved it.  She was so unaccustomed to having anyone near her while she slept, all he had to do was twitch, and she was awake. Which is why she’d been close on Raven’s heels when he’d gone running toward the commotion outside the Feast Hall. So many of the vendors were her friends, she’d plunged straight into the frenzy of saving the merchandise, confident Raven would find a way to get the sprinklers turned off.

And, of course, he’d done just that.
Hollywood
would undoubtedly take one look at his rough-hewn face, the deep, true black of his hair, and cast him as a villain, but Cat recognized hero material when she saw it. She just didn’t care to dwell on it as he was enough of a threat to her inner self without having to admit his bare skin glowed like shining bronze armor.

Cat sighed. After last night there was no way she could disguise him as a tame housecat. She would have to show him off as a prize. The man who had enough . . . Cat shied from naming what Raven had. He’d wanted to blend in, be as close to anonymous as possible. Instead, he was the man of the hour. The ranger’s buddy. The man who was sleeping with Catriona MacDuff.

Though Cat suspected Brocc didn’t believe it. She’d seen the look he’d directed at Raven. Hostility and then . . . was it scorn? To spare his own ego, Brocc seemed to have convinced himself Cat had produced Raven as a smoke screen. That she and Raven were together because they were both . . . well, a bit strange. So what was she going to do about it? Raven’s masquerade was hard enough on an FHP officer without the jocks speculating about his masculinity.

So what? Raven had started this whole thing. It was
his
brother.
His
problem.

Wrong. Her friends were being hurt as well. She had to help Raven, no matter how much turmoil he projected into her life. So Catriona MacDuff was going to have to bend a little, play the game, pretend her tiger was tame. And all hers.

But if she did . . .

She wouldn’t even consider the implications. Cat shut out the images that flooded her mind, threw her heart into overdrive. Scrambling out of her sleeping bag, she grabbed her bag of toiletries and headed for the wash house.

Cat crossed paths with Raven in the center of the circle of tents. She paused, placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, then buried her head on his chest, gave him a fast hug. For Raven, the temptation to stand stock still, staring after her as she continued on toward the restrooms, was almost overpowering. Somehow he straightened his shoulders, strode casually toward their tent as if getting a kiss from Catriona MacDuff was a constant occurrence.

Women.
He’d never understand them if he lived to be a hundred.

Cat was right. The teacher of the Newcomers’Class was incredible. A thirty-something male who loved LALOC so much tears filled his eyes when he talked about it. The devotion was catching. Raven had slipped into a seat near the back of the surprisingly large group of newcomers and examined the “students” with his usual care. They were young, middle-aged, senior citizens of every size and shape from thin and bespectacled to obese. Two had canes propped beside their chairs. Robust young men squared their shoulders against the possible implications of anyone mistaking their knee-length tunics for a dress, while the pants they were wearing underneath looked suspiciously like blue jeans. In several cases nymphets dangled at their sides, young things who thought Medieval times meant dressing like Xena, the Warrior Princess.

Even as he listened to the instructor discussing the nuances of LALOC, Raven pondered what all these people were doing here. There must be some basic yearning for a life not offered by the twenty-first century. He could understand the desire for sunshine and fresh air, the promotion of good manners, respect for others—no matter the color of their skin, the cast of their gender, their religion, or lack thereof. He could admire the desire to perpetuate the exquisite craftsmanship of the Middles Ages and Renaissance. And he had no trouble understanding the need of the fighters to take out their aggressions on each other instead of society in general. But that an impromptu masquerade party thrown by a small group in
California
could have so captured people’s imaginations that in thirty years it had grown into an international organization of considerable stature was a hard nut for Raven to swallow.

He wavered between reluctant admiration for the dedication of people who persisted in glorifying a culture centuries out of date and his original conviction that they were all stark, raving mad. That the best thing he could do was run as fast and as far as he could.
Oh, sure, Turco! It’s only twenty miles or so to the nearest town.
In fact, they were so far from civilization, his damn cell phone didn’t even work!

Raven scowled at the instructor.
They had to what?
Okay, he understood about not wearing a coronet, a gold neck chain, or a white belt. As if he’d want to! But bow to an empty chair? They had to be kidding!

They weren’t. Even in an empty room—no people, no classes, no nothing—the throne of the Kingdom must be respected. LALOC members must bow to the chair.

That was it! Raven came close to walking out. Definitely, these people were nuts.
Damn it, Mark, what’ve you done to me?
Golden
Beach
and the Gulf Coast of Florida were something like two hundred miles away. Was he going to call one of his troopers and say, “Hey, come and get me”? One look at this bunch, and they’d likely have him up for psych evaluation.

So he sat through the whole thing, outwardly accepting the idiocies along with the wisdom. There had to be a little rain on every parade, right? After class, he didn’t join the crowd hovering around the instructor. Sneaking out the door, he propped himself against the side of the Feast Hall, shaded by the broad porch roof above his head, and tried to get his head together. Was he on the ultimate wild goose chase, chasing a prankster when he ought to be tracking down a potential killer? Was he on a snipe hunt? Chasing a ghost in the midst of a masquerade when the real perp was some carnie dogging the Medieval Fair circuit?

Not a comfortable thought. Raven focused on the scene in front of him. The vendors were back in business. Only one, he’d been told, had packed up and left. Raven glanced around, saw no familiar faces other than those from the Newcomers’ Class. Couldn’t hurt to look at the armor, maybe buy some of that fancy Celtic jewelry for Cat for being such a good sport. Raven came off the wall. Time to play Newbie.

He drifted along the vendors’ pavilions, not bothering to disguise his interest in the unusual wares. Since he had his own private seamstress, he didn’t linger over a display of shirts, tunics, gowns and cloaks. But he couldn’t resist touching the soft gleaming leather of a pair of knee-high lace-up boots, the elaborate embossed designs on leather pouches, purses and what he was told were “scroll holders.” The vendor also featured the six-foot leather belts worn by so many LALOC males, casually passed through a single brass ring to dangle close to the ground.