Stranger in Camelot (4 page)

Two

John woke up with an ugly taste in his mouth. He hadn’t come here to manipulate and deceive anyone, but to get what was his. He knew how it felt to be the victim of lies. An enemy’s lies had cost him his career with Scotland Yard. Lies had put him in prison. Now, using lies to charm Agnes Hamilton disgusted him.

His problem wasn’t with her, but with her grandfather. Sam Hamilton, an officer in the American army who had befriended John’s grandparents during the war. They had lost almost everything in the heavy bombing of the countryside and had trusted Sam to help them protect two family heirlooms—the irreplaceable medieval books of their most famous ancestor, Sir Miles of Norcross. A powerful knight in the early years of King Henry II’s reign, Sir Miles had been unjustly accused of treason, imprisoned in the Tower of London, and eventually executed there. In history books he was described as a man the peasantry regarded as fair and kind. His wife Eleanor, too. A faithful servant of his king, he’d been the innocent victim of political intrigues.

The diary Sir Miles had written for Eleanor while imprisoned in the Tower was a testament to their love and dignity. His legend was based on it.

And then that damned American army officer, Sam Hamilton, had stolen it, and also Sir Miles’s prayer book. John’s mother had been too young to know the officer’s name. Later in the war, her parents died, so the officer’s identity was lost forever. John’s mother had grown up in orphanages and foster homes.

Even now John grimaced as he recalled her stories of poverty and abuse. She and his father, the son of another ruined family of old lineage, had both been orphaned and neglected after the war. When they married they shared their emotional scars, but they never overcame them.

John clenched his hands. How different their lives might have been if they’d had those books to sell! How different
his
boyhood would have been if they’d been able to care for themselves, and him, better.

Kicking himself for brooding over family history, John sat up on his sleeping bag and looked around Agnes’s barn, fiercely rubbing his hands over his face and bare chest to wake himself. Drawing his knees up, he leaned his arms on them while he thought about her. He liked calling her Agnes instead of Aggie. She was a tough little bird with a smart mouth, but classy.

There was more to her than the pride she wore like diamonds. The scandals in her past must have taught her to look at the world with that scrappy I’m-better-than-you-think-I-am attitude. John recognized her feelings, because he felt the same way.

His body reacted with bawdy excitement to his thoughts about her. He glanced down at the only item of clothing he could bear to sleep in during the muggy Florida nights. The blue and white striped swim trunks weren’t baggy enough for his feelings this morning. Agnes Hamilton filled him inside with too much annoyance, admiration, and pure blinding lust.

He was definitely no gentleman, not the way the English upper-class defined it, even though his bloo
was as blue as the Queen’s. Bloodlines didn’t mean anything without money, because money bought respectability and his family had lost both.

John rose quickly and went in search of a water hose and a cold dousing. Agnes had the books that were rightfully his by his mother’s inheritance, and if he could coax her, and them, into his hands, he’d be rich, and gentlemen be damned.

Aggie lay among the jumbled white sheets of her bed and trembled, her emotions ragged and her skin so warm that she threw the sheets back and fanned herself with the tail of her floppy white T-shirt.

She might as well have turned on every fan in the house and surrounded herself with them. The heat was internal, and thinking about John Bartholomew brought it to the surface.

Aggie glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand and saw that the time was only a little past seven. Good. He might still be asleep. She hoped to take a peek at him before he woke up. Strengthen her resolve. See if he snored, like a mortal human.

She got out of bed and, holding a hand against her head, groaned. She felt better than last night, but the pain still jiggled in her skull. She had the feeling that if someone shook her, her eyes would bounce like the beads in the plastic eyes of the stuffed baby alligator on her dresser.

She didn’t approve of stuffing alligators, but Grandpa had given her the thing as a welcoming gift when she’d moved in five years ago. For that reason, she treasured it.

She’d named it Al, for Al Sheffield, the tough little Hollywood agent who had put an end to what was left of her career, at her request. Because Al had been good at breaking contracts, she’d been able to move here before
the last of her pride was gone. Every year she sent Al a birthday card and in his honor kissed his stuffed reptilian namesake on its scaly nose.

She took off her T-shirt so that she could strap her generous breasts into an industrial-strength sports bra. She jerked the T-shirt back into place and glowered at her chest. Let John Bartholomew have fun staring at this shield of cotton-polyester.

Brushing past Al to the collection of bandannas hanging from her dresser mirror, she chose a faded blue one then pulled her tangled black hair back with it. Next she belted baggy khaki work shorts over torn white panties that the dogs had stolen from the laundry and used for a tug-of-war. The panties were comfortable and they still did their duty. That was all that mattered. Finally she stuck her feet into tall white crew socks and ankle-high hiking boots, with bright orange laces that she wound around the tops.

Clumping outside to the porch, she opened the big metal trash can where she stored dry dog food and scooped the chow into the dogs’ communal pan, spilling food on the warped wooden floor as she did. Her attention was on the barn a hundred yards away. The open doors, twice her height and swathed in delicate jasmine vines, resembled the entrance to a dark cave. Now it had a bear inside.

She wiped damp palms on her shorts. Drawing a deep breath of dewy, sunshine-filled air, she marched to the barn. Inside, sunlight filtered through cracks in the boards, and the only sound was the resident mouse scratching around in its cranny along the feedroom wall.

In the last stall she found his sleeping bag and backpack. So he hadn’t faded into the night’s mist without a trace.

She stopped in the center of the hallway, listening with taut nerves and looking toward the other set of
double doors that led to the corral and pasture. One door stood open. She cocked her head and heard the low hum of the barn’s water pipe as it strained to full throttle.

Aggie jumped when a loud growl of masculine discomfort sounded outside, followed by the splashing of water. She hurried into the corral, the soft sand sucking at her shoes as if reluctant to let her see what was around the corner of the barn.

Aggie sprang to the wooden fence where it butted against the building then craned her head around.

He might as well have been naked, considering how the swim trunks were plastered to him and how low they’d settled on his lean hips. He had his eyes shut and his head tilted back to catch the full force of the water hose he held above him. Water drenched him, splattered off the chiseled nose and roughly planed cheekbones, and ran in frothy torrents down a broad chest covered in dark hair.

When the streams reached his stomach they snaked along smooth, honey-colored skin with a converging trail of dark hair at the center. At the top of his trunks the hair spread out again and hinted at the different coarseness farther down. Not very far, considering how little of his belly was left to the imagination. It was obvious that his trunks were held up only by the part of him that refused to remain flat, even when doused with cold water. The water was innocent, but the way it caressed him was a lesson in intimacy.

Aggie clenched the top of the fence and studied him raptly, telling herself she was only responding to what Madison Avenue advertising companies had discovered long ago, that water streaming down a handsome male body was one of the most provocative sights in the world. Millions of women had bought extra soap because of commercials based on this.

Well, not
quite
like this, because commercials were never X-rated.

Aggie couldn’t help noticing that his trunks trapped water and allowed only the most tempting little streams to escape. They sought paths through the smooth, dark hair on his long legs. She stared at a trickle that slid slowly down the heavy muscle atop one of his thighs. Those water molecules had certainly had an interesting trip.

Buying soap was the last thing on her mind.

Feeling bad for watching him in secret, she started to climb down and leave, but he opened his eyes and caught sight of her. Aggie halted, one foot on the middle fence board, the other about to settle on the board below it. The thick sole of her hiking boot slipped on the board’s painted edge, still damp from the night’s rain. Aggie’s foot and leg plunged between the boards, and she cursed. A second later she was straddling the fence halfway up and flailing about with her arms for a grip.

Lady Agnes, indeed!

As she struggled to pull her leg back, and her rump began to slide toward the ground, she was grimly aware of John Bartholomew tossing the hose aside and coming to help her. He scaled the tall fence so fast that he made a smooth vault from the middle board and then over, landing right beside her. His large, bare feet sprayed her with fine particles of sand.

“Let me, Agnes,” he said kindly, without a trace of amusement. Then he put his hands under her arms and pulled her upward. She felt like an ant being lifted by a crane.

“When I was a kid I took ten years of dance classes. For all that damned trouble I shouldn’t have ended up with the grace of an armadillo.”

“Even a swan has awkward moments.” Her feet dangled off the ground. He lifted her higher and kissed the tip of her nose. She thought her breasts were being
stroked by every hair and muscle of his chest as he set her down. When she took a shaky step back, he cupped his hands on her shoulders to steady her. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly.

“Mornin’.”

She busily adjusted her bandanna and smoothed her shorts, trying to ignore her jumbled emotions and his glistening body. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your shower.”

“Thank goodness you did. I was in agony. Didn’t your advertisement say there are shower stalls with hot water at your campground? I hope so. My nobility would get icicles on it if I had to take a cold shower every morning.”

“Look, John, that’s something we’ve got to talk about.” Aggie stepped back again, forcing him to drop his hands from her shoulders.

“My icicles?” He eyed her hopefully, smiling.

She suddenly felt like a jerk. “I was too addled last night to remember my rules. The campground’s only for families and couples. No singles. I’m really sorry, but my grandfather always ran things that way, and he was right. It’s quieter and less trouble. I’ve got a reputation to keep up. A lot of my campers are senior citizens, and they get nervous so easily. Please don’t take this personally. I’m sure
you
wouldn’t cause any trouble.”

The disappointment that darkened his eyes twisted her resolve. He really seemed let down. “I understand, Agnes. I’ve put you in an embarrassing spot. Please don’t worry. I approve of your rules.”

“I apologize. I mean it.”

“Your grandfather is … deceased?” he asked carefully.

She nodded. “He died a couple of months ago. He was in town doing some Latin research at the library, and he had a heart attack.”

“I can hear the grief in your tone. How awful for you to lose him.”

“I miss him,” she admitted, and looked away, feeling vulnerable and distraught for many reasons, not just Grandpa’s death.

“You ran this place together?”

“Yeah. When I was little he taught me everything he knew about horses. When I came back here five years ago, he made me a partner and gave me my father’s old room. He was getting a little frail. I cooked for him and kept out of the way when his girlfriends came to visit.”

“Girlfriends?”

She smiled. “Grandpa was popular with the senior set. He called them his gray foxes.”

“And he studied Latin? He sounds fascinating.”

Aggie nodded again. “He loved books. Funny, a grizzled old horse rancher and retired army captain, and he could speak Latin. It was like living with a retired Roman cavalry officer. Grandpa was unique.”

She was silent, looking up at John thoughtfully and wondering how he’d managed to loose such personal information. And after she’d told him to hit the road.

“I’m sorry about the campground,” she repeated. “Really.”

“Sssh. I appreciate your concern, but there’s no harm done.” He had a subdued but understanding expression on his face. “If you could recommend another camping area I’d be grateful.”

“Sure.” Aggie reminded herself that there were too many strange coincidences about him—his being English and a medieval history buff. Fumbling with her bandanna, she pulled it off and twisted it in her hands. She didn’t need the worry. Or the temptation to confide in him about the books. Too much was at stake.

“Could I help you feed your mares?” he asked. “I enjoy working with horses.”

Aggie was relieved by the change of subject. “Sure!”
She smiled up at him, lost herself in his gaze for a second, then turned her attention to gathering her hair at the nape of her neck and tying it with the bandanna. “You must have been around horses a lot. You ride like an expert.”

He chuckled, the warm, deep sound pulling at her blood. “Many years ago I was an alternate on the British equestrian team. I nearly made it to the Olympics.” At her astonishment, he chuckled. “But ‘nearly’ is nothing to brag about.”

“Of course it is! I can imagine how much competition there was to become an alternate. You must have been wonderful!”

He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I was barely out of Oxford.”

“Oxford? Now I’m even more impressed.”

“It’s a college, like any other.”

“Right. And Van Gogh was just a one-eared painter.”