Stranger in Camelot (2 page)

“What are you doing here?” she screamed up at the phantom, twisting out of his grasp as she did. The wind howled around them as if filled with spirits. “What do you want?”

She heard the whoosh of a torn tree branch a second before it struck her head. Then there was just the
darkness and the phantom, who absorbed her last conscious thought when he called her name. It seemed he had answered her question.

The publicity photographs hadn’t come close to doing her justice, John Bartholomew decided as he hurriedly carried the woman into her house. Of course, the photos had been taken more than twelve years before, when she left show business.

She wasn’t the girl-next-door teenager anymore. Good. He’d been struggling to picture the mature Aggie Hamilton, and he hadn’t wanted to see her as that cute, oddly vulnerable-looking kid. There was too much at stake for him to risk feeling sentimental toward her.

No problem there, he grumbled to himself. The half-conscious woman he carried into the small, weathered house and placed on the old couch was disarmingly voluptuous compared to the skinny teenager, and the hair that had been done in tomboy braids was a thick, curly mane, even when wet.

And photos hadn’t hinted at her intriguing scent—a mixture of hay, spices, rainwater. In his arms she felt achingly soft but not delicate. Her ruddy fists—even when knocked nearly senseless she never unclenched them—impressed him with their determination.

Americans grow their thieves lovely but tough
, he thought.

Scowling, John tucked a throw pillow under her head. Then he strode into her kitchen and ran water over a dish towel. He’d seen too many knocked heads and been knocked in the head too often himself to be very alarmed about her condition. Still, his heart was tripping along a bit too fast for its unfeeling self, he thought wryly. Had to be the storm’s effect. And seeing her in all the thunder and lightning, braced against the elements, fighting them. And seeing her get hurt. All of
it had given him the feeling that she’d been waiting for him. It made him feel guilty. What rubbish!

John ran back to the living room and bent over her, his yellow poncho streaming water onto the pale, glistening skin of her face and neck. He removed the poncho and tossed it aside then cupped her head in one hand, while he wiped the cloth over the scraped place at the top of her forehead. A nasty bruise was swelling there.

She continued to move her head weakly, frowning and squinting. John smoothed back her sopping red hair. With what he hoped was cynicism he studied her face. Still a girlish package, with those apple-round cheeks and that tipped nose, he decided. But the sexy mouth gave her away. Her mouth had grown up a long time ago, according to the stories about her. He reminded himself that her past wasn’t as pretty as she was.

Finally he looked at her breasts. The soaked gown didn’t leave any secrets about their size, shape, or general magnificence, and the torn place neatly framed one breast and its rosy, upthrust nipple. A drop of rainwater perched there. Her restless movements made it slide onto her blue-veined skin and disappear beneath the gown’s ragged edge.

John was dismayed but not surprised when blood rushed to his belly and tightened him. He never hesitated to admire a woman, the fewer clothes on her, the better. But he didn’t want to admire a hurt, helpless one who had no choice in the matter.

He had nothing else to cover her with, so he removed his soggy white pullover and draped it along her torso. The pullover hid her from neck to thighs. John shook his head at her long, sculpted legs. He’d covered what he could. He deserved to enjoy looking at the rest.

He knelt beside the couch and pressed the dishcloth to her head again. The rainwater inside his khaki
trousers made him itch to strip his clothes off. With grim humor he wondered how quickly the sight of a tall, hairy man wearing nothing but briefs would shock the lady back to her senses.

The other women who had seen him that way over the years had not been shocked, of course, but, well, delightfully astonished. But Aggie Hamilton would probably punch him with those hard little fists and call the local constable.

“Agnes?” he said gently, pressing the cloth to her forehead. “Miss Hamilton?”

Her hands finally unfurled and moved limply toward her head. She touched her face with tentative fingertips, bumped his hands, stopped, then sighed. Even with her eyes still closed her expression seemed confused—or was it hopeful? “Sir Miles,” she murmured.

John was so startled at hearing his ancestor’s name that he drew back abruptly, forgetting gentleness. After studying her for a moment, grim determination took over. She had the books. This proved it.

Blinking rapidly, she opened her eyes and stared into space, wincing with pain. Slowly her gaze shifted to him. He watched her eyes focus then widen with alarm.

“You’re all right,” he assured her distractedly, squeezing her hand for a moment. “You were hit on the head by a tree branch. I carried you to your house. Please don’t be afraid of me.”

“Who are you and what were you doing in my pasture?”

He started to tell her the truth. He’d come here planning to tell her, to confront her. But he couldn’t start making trouble while she was hurt and groggy. The way she’d said “Sir Miles” made a shiver run up his spine. She’d caressed the name as if it meant something special to her.

“Who are you?” she repeated. “Quit givin’ me that stare and say something.”

“Miss Hamilton, relax. First things first. Are you all right?”

She gingerly touched the knot on her forehead. Her gaze bored into him, not sidetracked by the pain. “I said, Who are you?”

He planned quickly and came up with an evasive answer. “I’m a tourist. I was looking for your campground when my Jeep broke down. I climbed over a fence along the road—your fence, apparently—and started walking. I hoped to find the campsite or your house.”

“What were you doing with my horses?”

“Nothing wicked, I assure you.” He chuckled, trying very hard to distract himself from the intriguing mixture of colors in her eyes. The irises were gray toward the center, darkening outward to soft blue, and rimmed in dark blue at the perimeters. He could understand how a camera would fall in love with those eyes.

He leaned forward again and stroked the wet cloth over her bruise. An injured woman could turn a man to mush. All his protective instincts rose to the surface. And it was pleasing to touch her, more pleasing than touching any other woman he could recall. Glancing down at her generous breasts making hills under his shirt, he admitted that his plan might become much more personal than he’d expected.

You’re no gentleman, Bartholomew
.

“I’m terribly lazy,” he told her. “I saw the horses and decided that searching for your campground would be a great deal more pleasant if I had four hooves under me.”

“That mare you were galloping is in foal.”

“Eight hooves, then.” He laughed, saw her stern expression soften a little, and knew that his charm was working. “I could see that she was pregnant. I didn’t encourage her to take off like a rocket. But she didn’t ask for my permission. With nothing but my belt snugged around her nose as a rein, she didn’t have to.”

“You’re English, aren’t you?”

“Yes. From London.”

The information upset her. He could see her withdrawing, wariness and surprise cloaking her eyes. Dull anger grew inside him. She had the books. That was why meeting an Englishman startled her. If she was this nervous about her secret, he’d have a fight when she learned why he’d come to find her.

But maybe she didn’t need to know. Maybe he could coax her into telling him about the books, if he played his cards right. “Is there a problem?” John asked.

“No. Nothing. I don’t get many foreign tourists, that’s all. By the way, the campground is on the other side of the woods, not here. This is my home. My ranch.”

“All right. Now that we’ve got the introduction settled, let’s take care of you. How do you feel?”

“Fine.” She pushed upright and wedged herself into a corner of the couch, inching farther away from him. He noticed his pullover was about to fall down, but couldn’t decide how to point that out to her delicately.

“I fear you’re being brave. We should give a name to that small mountain growing on your forehead. Honor it, as if it were a monument. I believe we could charge admission. Perhaps turn you into a state park. Mount Agnes State Park. Yes, I rather like that.”

His teasing earned a vague smile from her, though suspicion still clouded her eyes. “This is like listening to Richard Burton
try
to do stand-up comedy. Or being heckled by a British Don Rickles.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t trying to annoy you. Only make you smile. How do you feel, really?”

“Like a cartoon character who’s been hit with a hammer. I’m sure there are stars and little birds circling my head.”

“No stars, not in this weather.” Steady rain drummed on the house, rattling the porch’s tin roof. Cool, sweet air had filled the night, carrying with it a hint of salt
marshes. Thunder growled faintly in the distance. John had trouble paying attention.

“Did you notice where my horses went?” she asked, straightening.

“Sssh. They’re safely gathered in the woods. The worst of the storm is over.”

“I have to go check on them.”

He pretended to study the floor lamp behind the couch. “You’ll need dry clothes, first.”

She looked down at herself. “Oh, boy.” She calmly lifted his pullover shirt and held it over her chest. But her cheeks were red. “Thanks for the loan.”

“Sorry about the embarrassment.”

“Don’t apologize for being gallant.” She looked at him with an intrigued expression, then glanced at the faded chintz-covered couch. The cushions where she’d lain had a wet outline of her body. Frowning, she wiped drops of water from a torn place in the upholstery. “Guess it’s a good thing I donated the priceless antiques to the Smithsonian.”

“Yes, I like this style much better.”

“I must get up. See about the mares.”

John placed a hand on her shoulder when she started to scoot past him. “That’s a nasty bump, Miss Hamilton. Your horses are fine. Rest.”

She stared at him, then at his broad, darkly haired hand. Her breasts rose and fell swiftly under his shirt. Her eyes darted anxiously to his bare chest, then back to his face. She gave him a cold look of warning.

John casually dropped his hand to his knee. She was looking at him the way a woman did when she distrusted men—all men—intensely. He felt even more protective toward her. “You don’t have to be nervous. I know this is an odd situation, but you’ve got nothing to worry about where I’m concerned.”

That might be untrue in some ways, he thought a bit guiltily.

She shuddered and exhaled a long, tired breath. “Sorry. Don’t take it personally.” Tilting her head, she studied him with fascination again. “I guess you’re the first man who rescued me from anything, and I keep wanting to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming.”

“Please, no pinching. You’ve got one bruise already.” He was glad to see her smile at his teasing. “I’ll check on your horses for you, if you like. All right, Agnes?”

“Who told you my name?” He sat back on his heels to give her space. He knew he was too large and brawny to look harmless, but a lot of women found that appealing. He hoped Agnes Hamilton was one of them.

“You’re listed on the bulletin board at the crossroads grocery,” he said. “ ‘Hamilton Lake and Campground. Aggie Hamilton, owner.’ Your advertisement is right under the one for a fishing supplies store. I was looking at ‘Live Worms and Shrimp—Cheap,’ and then I found you.”

She smiled again. “There are other campgrounds listed on that board.”

“True. I’m lucky, I suppose.” He held out the wet dishcloth as if it were a gift. She took it slowly and dabbed it against her bruise. Her hair was a mass of wet ringlets that twirled several inches below her shoulders.

She could have stepped from a shower. Easy enough to envision her naked and surrounded by steam, John thought. Too easy. “I was trying to lead the horses safely into the woods,” he told her. “Not using one for a free ride.”

With painful effort she cocked a dark-red brow and studied him solemnly. “What’s a British tourist doing so far off the beaten track? You ought to fire your travel agent.”

“I wanted to roam the back roads of America. I’m here for a whole month. I decided to rent a Jeep and go wherever the mood took me. Besides, this isn’t so
secluded. I hear that St. Augustine is a lovely, large town. And it’s close by, isn’t it?”

“Fifteen minutes.” She held her head and shut her eyes. Her pale complexion, sprinkled with almond-colored freckles across the nose, was turning a sallow color. She had exactly five freckles. John had counted them. “I’m a little dizzy,” she said.

He rose to his feet quickly. “I think an X ray of that lovely noggin is in order. If you’ll trust me to drive your car, and you’ll give me highway directions, I’ll carry you to hospital.”

“Carry me to hospital?” she mimicked gently, doing a surprisingly good imitation of his accent. “I don’t like hospitals, but the way you put it, going to one sounds pretty quaint.”

“ ‘Kindness it is that brings forth kindness always.’ ”

“Hmmm, a philosophy lesson.”

“The ancient Greeks had a way with words. ‘One who knows how to show and to accept kindness will be a friend better than any possession.’ Sophocles. About four hundred B.C.”

The look on Aggie Hamilton’s face said that she had doubts about a man who tried to impress her by quoting Sophocles. Getting off the couch with slow, careful movements, she recited darkly, “ ‘Skipper, I smell something fishy around here.’ ” She cut her eyes at him. “Gilligan. About 1967.”

He bit back a rich laugh and latched a hand under her arm as she stood up. “Thanks for your help,” she said abruptly. She held the dishcloth to her head and peered up at him from under an orange chicken embroidered on the material. “This is a strange night. A strange night.” She seemed to be mulling those words, lost in some private bewilderment. “But I appreciate what you did for my horses. And thanks for bringing me inside. And for offering to drive—”