Stranger in Camelot (6 page)

“Let’s pretend this kiss didn’t happen. And I apologize for my ugly attitude. Good enough? Now we’re back where we started—two strangers who don’t have as much in common as you think. But you’re a nice man. I mean that.”

“Nice” was an understatement. She moved back and squeezed his hands to signal that she wanted him to release her. His expression somber, he opened his fingers and let her hands slip away. His dignity gave him power and made her feel foolish. “We have a great
deal in common, Agnes. And if you think I can forget the feel of you in my arms or the sweetness of your mouth, you sadly underestimate yourself. Even if it was centuries ago that I’d kissed you, I’d still remember how lovely it was.”

Her knees turned to rubber. Something was going on here that she didn’t understand.
I could have kissed you centuries ago
.

“Thank you for the compliment,” she said weakly. “Now if you don’t mind, I have horses to feed, if I can find them.”

He nodded. “Practical matters first. Yes, you’re right.”

As they hunted for the mares she covered her troubled thoughts by telling him the horses’ bloodlines and the cost of breeding each to a quality stallion. Her grandfather had worked for decades to build up his stock, and with enough hard work of her own, Aggie hoped to make the little ranch a big name among quarter-horse patrons.

John asked pleasant questions and acted as though the scene in the pasture had never occurred. Aggie knew she’d never forget it.

As they rounded the peninsula of forest that hid the rest of the pasture from view, John suddenly grasped her arm. Aggie whirled toward him, ready to fight another of his invasions on her common sense.

But his face was grim, and he pointed toward a distant stretch of fence. The solitary oak that had been a favorite shade spot for Hamilton livestock over the years now lay in the jumble of boards and hog wire that had been a good thirty-foot section of fence.

“This explains why the mares didn’t come up this morning,” he noted.

Aggie groaned. She suspected where the mares had gone, and she knew she was going to need John’s help to get them back.

She needed him too much now.

Three

Okay, there were good reasons to have John Bartholomew around, Aggie admitted. The man could probably charm sand crabs out of the sand. With any luck, he’d make Ida Roberts act nearly human. On the other hand, if Ida was as cranky as ever, she would at least divert Aggie’s attention from the awkward problem of having John Bartholomew around.

She steered her truck down a two-lane road bordered by gnarled live oaks and scrub pine. John seemed to relish this new opportunity to make himself indispensable. His patience was seductive.

“I can’t imagine why this lady would dislike you,” he said abruptly, as if he’d been pondering the question for some time. He had his head up and his eyes half shut. The wind ruffled his thick, chocolate-colored hair. He looked content. “You don’t seem to dislike her. And you’re very good-natured.”

“You weren’t thinking that back in the pasture.”

“I was thinking that you’re too cautious, but that’s no crime. Even if it’s misdirected, in my case.”

“We met less than twenty-four hours ago. I think I’m being reckless, not cautious.”

“For kissing me? No. Deep down you know I’m wonderful
and we’re going to have a wonderful time together.”

She laughed to take the edge off her next words. “This isn’t a beach movie and we’re not having a summer romance. So don’t expect any clambakes.”

“You can’t insult me,” he insisted, his tone droll, “because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Now come on, you can’t tell me you never saw a Frankie and Annette flick. What are you—thirty-something years old, right? And you never saw
Beach Blanket Bingo
when you were a kid? Even an English kid oughta know about Frankie and Annette.”

“I had an unusual upbringing.”

He spoke with a hard edge in his voice. She glanced at him curiously, but couldn’t analyze his shuttered expression. She pondered what she knew about him. He’d attended one of England’s most pretigious colleges, been an alternate on the Olympic equestrian team, and was the heir to a successful family business. That spelled big money and blue blood.

“You must have gone to private schools,” she prodded. “Pretty strict and traditional, from what I’ve heard. Nobody wasted time watching TV or going to silly movies.”

He was silent for so long that she wondered if he’d heard her. “Something like that,” he said finally.

His voice was so subdued, she felt protective of him. Aggie gritted her teeth. He was two hundred-plus pounds of muscular, rugged handsomeness, with a face that looked as if it had been molded by intense passions. He was educated and successful. Protection was the last thing he needed. So she’d treat him like a testy stallion with a sore leg—she’d be sympathetic, but watch out for his kick.

“Aw, never mind about Frankie and Annette,” she told him. “You didn’t miss anything important. I shouldn’t have teased you.”

“You can tease me all you want.” He exhaled, as if relieved, and draped his arm along the back of the seat. Then he twirled a finger into a strand of her ponytail. “But I’ll tease back.”

“So let me tell you more about Ida Roberts,” she said quickly. “She had a feud with my grandpa, and I inherited it.”

“A feud about what?”

“Ducks. Really ugly ducks.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Domestic ducks. Mixed breeds. Big ones. With no manners and nonstop appetites. Whenever Grandpa’s horses got out and visited Ida’s place, they became hostages in the duck war. Ida locked mares in her pasture and refused to give them back.”

“What did he have to do?”

“Let her call him names.” She turned onto a private drive lined with graceful mimosa trees. Their feathery green fronds reached toward the truck. John held his hand out the window and let them brush his fingertips. But he kept his other hand lightly twined in her hair. She could barely feel it, but every inch of her body knew it was there.

“Is that all she does? Call people names?” John asked.

“Usually. Don’t be surprised if she calls you ‘a snake from a scum pond,’ or something even more disgusting.”

The truck’s wheels made crackling noises on the drive’s crushed-shell surface. John’s deep chuckle added a smooth baritone note, relaxed and confident. “A snake from a scum pond. How rude,” he said lightly. “Tell me what else to expect.”

“You’ll see. Don’t get mad. She loves a fight. She used to provoke Grandpa until he’d have to come home and take an extra blood-pressure tablet.”

“You’re certain she has your horses?”

Aggie nodded. “They cut across the edge of the marshes
to her backyard. Ida only has two acres, with half of it fenced in. They head straight for her pasture to see Pogo.”

“Pogo?”

“A midget four-footed Romeo. The Napoleon of the pony set. Small, sexy, and overconfident. The gals think he’s fabulous. And he, of course, thinks they’re right.”

“Is he a threat? Any chance of an illicit love affair between Pogo and one of your princesses?”

“Not unless somebody gives him a box to stand on.”

John’s hearty, astonished laugh made her grin, while at the same time she kicked herself for being so blunt. “Excuse me,” she added. “I used to be more delicate. Now I spend too much time in the barn.”

“It’s a pleasant place, your barn.”

“It’s better with company. I mean … oh, hell. Open mouth, insert foot. You know what I’m trying to say.”

“I wish you meant it the way it sounded.”

She stomped on the accelerator. He was helping her dig herself in too deep, but she was doing most of the shoveling. “So let me finish telling you about Ida and the ducks. People bring the ducks to Ida’s pond. Ida loves the ducks. I don’t know why, because they are, without a doubt, the nastiest, ugliest ducks in the known world. These are escapees from Easter baskets or something. No one’s sure. They hatch little ducks like crazy and take over every lake, pond, and puddle of fresh water. There’s a battle between people who want the ducks left alone and people who want the ducks roasted over an open spit. Grandpa was a roaster.”

John was laughing silently. “So he and Ida clashed?”

“Yeah. Locals would sneak into the campground with ducks they’d captured. They dumped them in our lake. Grandpa would round up the ducks and sell them to an alligator zoo over in Ocala.”

“Where they enjoyed long, happy lives as companions for the alligators, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And Mrs. Roberts objected?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s not selling roast duck on the sly, is she?”

“Oh, no. She’s a vegetarian.”

“Good thing she’s not an alligator.”

Aggie began grinning. Suddenly, because John was with her, she wasn’t dreading Ida’s tirade anymore. “I’d rather deal with a gator. A kinder bite than Ida’s.”

John laughed again. She was beginning to love the sound. A giddy wildness was growing inside her. “And you?” he asked. “Where did you stand in the duck war between Mrs. Roberts and you late grandfather?”

“I think Ida’s an impractical fool for thinking she can give every duck in the country a permanent home, but I sort of hated for the ducks to become alligator munchies. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no softie where ducks are concerned. I can’t afford to be. I’ve got my own tail feathers to worry about.”

“It’s all right to be a softie at heart, Agnes. You love animals, even ducks. I think that’s marvelous.”

His admiration made her tingle, even though she suspected it was only flattery. Well, she could use some flattery, she told herself—as long as she enjoyed it but didn’t believe it.

“My mother’s parents were Quakers,” she told John. “I used to visit them up in Pennsylvania when I was little. That is, whenever I wasn’t working out in California. I really loved their farm. They weren’t sentimental about their animals, but they respected them. They had a live-and-let-live attitude toward things.”

“Your mother was a Quaker too?”

Aggie chewed the inside of her mouth for a moment. “Not when it interfered with what she wanted. No. Mom didn’t get along with her folks.” She made her voice breezy and changed the subject. “So maybe those kindhearted
Quaker instincts jumped a generation, and I got them.”

She made a disgusted sound at her whimsical explanation and realized that being with John made her think about who and what she was—and how different her background was from his.

“Tell me about your parents,” he prompted. “Are they both living?”

“Oh, let’s stop talking about my family,” she said lightly. “Take my word for it. You and I don’t have much in common. When it comes to family histories, you got the Broadway production and I got the road company.”

“And we speak different languages, too, because I’m bewildered again.”

“My parents weren’t a class act. I’m ashamed of them. Enough said.”

“Agnes
.” His voice was almost angry. “What do their problems have to do with you? You’re very special and have nothing to be ashamed of.” He reached over and took one of her hands from the steering wheel, brought it to his mouth, kissed it forcefully, then placed it back on the wheel. “Enough said,” he mimicked, but with a strained tone.

Aggie shivered with a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and poignant affection. Searching for something nonchalant to say, she could only toss back, “Well, I’m proud of being part Quaker.” She exhaled shakily. The mood in the truck’s cab reminded her of the energized air before last night’s storm. “So anyhow, now you understand about the duck war.”

“You’re not exactly a Quaker.” John cleared his throat. “Under these circumstances, I’d call you a
Quacker.
”

She sputtered, cast a sidelong look at his suppressed smile, and burst into giggles. “A Quacker. Yeah.”

“You secretly love ducks,” he continued, his voice fiendish. “I’m sure of it. I’ll tell Mrs. Roberts that we’ve come to take a few dozen back with us.”

“Do it and I’ll twist your beak so hard you can’t peck worms for a month.”

He chuckled. “How dare you threaten my pecker. I take great pride in it. I won’t let you stroke it, if you keep talking that way.”

For a second she was stunned. Then, fighting a smile, she asked, “John, in England, what’s the definition of ‘pecker’?

He arched one brow and studied her as if she were asking a trick question. “It’s something a bird pecks with,” he answered cautiously.

“No other meaning, huh?”

“What is it in your—oh,
Agnes
, I can see by the look on your face! Is it what I think it is?”

She nodded fervently. Her giggles became soft, breathless gulps of merriment.

John groaned. “I apologize.”

“Your beak is safe from me.”

“Agnes, I would
never
make a crude joke like that on purpose.”

As she guided the truck through the magnolia trees in front of Ida’s white cottage, she was clutching her mouth with one hand and trying to stop snickering. It didn’t help that there were ducks everywhere—sitting on the cottage’s roof, perched in the trees, pecking around in the flower beds, and sunning themselves on Ida’s new compact car.

“See, John? It’s a Duck-o-Rama!” She couldn’t resist adding, in a choked voice, “The little peckers are
everywhere.
”

He leaned back, laughing and shaking his head. “I’m glad you aren’t upset by my slip of the tongue.”

“Upset? John, you’ve gotta be one of the last gentlemen on the face of the planet. I could put you on display and sell tickets to millions of adoring women.”

He tucked his chin and looked at her with a breathtaking
combination of invitation and good humor. “My beak is available only for private audiences.”

Aggie giggled harder as he dissolved into his wonderful baritone chuckles again. At that moment a dozen mottled, black and white ducks chose to scurry out from behind a toolshed and dodge the truck’s front bumper. Aggie slammed on the brakes. They hissed and ran, their wings spread. Flapping and waddling, they hurried to a pond surrounded by oaks several hundred feet behind the house. The pond was already overcrowded with feathered swimmers.