A Knight in Central Park(35)
Joe peered deep into her eyes. “What day is this?”
“It is the 20th of July.”
He came to his feet and paced the room. He’d read every one of his father’s theories concerning the Black Knight. “July 20th, 1499,” he said. “That’s three weeks before the Black Knight allegedly saves the King of England’s life.”
His eyes lit up as he came back to her side. The same excited look she’d seen in his eyes when he’d shown her his book of treasures.
“If I could find the Black Knight,” he said, “discover his true identity, do you know what that would mean?”
She smiled. Verily it made her insides thrum to see his eyes suddenly filled with excitement and hope.
“My father has spent his entire life searching for clues as to the Black Knight’s identity. Whether the Black Knight exists or not...to think I might finally learn the truth.”
She came to her feet.
The way he was looking at her, made her dare to think he might kiss her. She prayed he would do just that.
Instead, he frowned. “This is crazy...to think for even one moment that the Black Knight might exist. He’s a figment of my father’s imagination for God’s sake.”
“Nay. It is a miracle you are here. You must look for the knight you seek. And who better to help you than myself.” She smiled. “In exchange for my help, you will travel with me to Radmore’s Keep and help rescue my sister from Sir Richard’s ruddy clutches.”
When Sir Joe failed to respond, she added thoughtfully, “At the very least, think of the research you could do whilst you are here, the wonderful artwork I can show you: wall hangings of painted wood and linen, ivory carvings, golden spurs and broadswords gleaming with precious stones. If you recall, Sir Richard is the one who possesses the candlestick.” Her excitement grew as she said, “Help me rescue my sister, and I will get you that candlestick myself.”
He cocked his head as he seemed to consider her words.
Alexandra offered her hand. “Do we have a deal?”
After a moment, with some reluctance, he accepted her hand, covering it with his own. His fingers were warm, his hand strong and comforting.
They looked upon one another—Sir Joe with mayhap a bit of apprehension; she with confidence. Alexandra wanted nothing more than to lean close to him and wrap her arms about his neck. But Sir Joe, she was quickly learning, was not a man to be rushed.
Nay. Sir Joe needed time to think things through. Needed time to adjust and ponder. It would only be a matter of time before he realized she was the woman of his heart and soul, the woman he was destined to be with forever.
He released her hand. She watched him move across the room to gather his boots. There had been times when she had yearned for a man to help with the fields, but never once before this moment had she yearned for a man of her own, a man to fulfill any purpose other than to lighten her load of responsibilities.
Her insides ached to think she’d become so thoroughly enamored with a man at all. A frown creased her brow at the thought that she’d fallen for a man who was afraid of a little dirt, a man who disliked children, who broke promises, and worst of all, a man who failed to notice her at all.
Chapter Ten
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
—Shakespeare
Teeth chattering, Joe followed Alexandra through the village of Brookshire, thankful for the sun’s rays pressing through the clouds and warming his back. His hair was damp from his quick bath in a wooden tub filled with cold water. He’d used a tattered old cloth to dry off and also to scrub his teeth. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since he’d been tossed into a strange new world, and yet he’d gladly trade every possession he owned back home for a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.
The smell of burning charcoal floated in the air. Hammers pounded against metal. From his studies of medieval cities, he would have expected much more chaos and noise. But he heard no ringing of church bells. Nor did he see streets lined with shops. In fact, the streets were not streets at all, but narrow dirt paths weaving about small huts with thatched roofs and cob walls. The doors weren’t made of rough-hewn oak as they had been at the Tibbs’ small manor, but instead were oiled linen flaps still wet from an earlier rain.
He was cold and uncomfortable; clearly out of his realm. The leather pants Alexandra had left for him were not going to work. They were much too tight. And these slippers they considered boots. Ha! He might as well be barefoot for all the protection they provided against thorns and rocks. But before he could make his complaints known, they reached their destination.