A Knight in Central Park(49)
“It’s been a long time,” he said. He glanced at the moon, his face seemingly haunted by some inner demon she had not noticed before. “I guess the thing I remember most about her is the sound of her voice.”
Clearly he was uncomfortable with the subject matter. He kept his gaze on the stars above. “After school,” he said, “when all of my chores were done, a dozen or so neighborhood kids would gather outside to play. Sometimes we ended up five blocks down the street. But it didn’t matter how far we went because we would always hear my mother call before dark. The kids would give me pitiful looks, thankful their mothers didn’t have the lungs of an elephant. But not me,” he said, a smile playing at the curves of his mouth. “I always liked knowing she could find me no matter how far away I was.”
As he took a seat on a fallen log nearby, he appeared to shake the memories off. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside, she thought.
“What about your mother,” he asked. “What was she like?”
“Oh,” Alexandra offered happily, “my mother was wonderful, the most beautiful woman on this side of England. She could sing like a nightingale and charm a cup of cream from a hungry cat. People always wanted to be near her.” Alexandra bent over, retrieving two tin plates from her saddlebag. “Have you ever met a person like that? Someone whose warmth and kindness made you yearn to get closer?”
The night air had gone from cold to brisk, but verily she felt nothing but heat coming from Sir Joe’s warm knowing smile; a smile that told her it was good for her to miss her mother so.
Alexandra’s hood fell back and a breeze tossed strands of hair about her face. She tried to find a place for the plates so she could adjust the hood.
“Here, let me help.” Sir Joe stood tall, removed her hood and tucked it in his waistband so he could use both hands to gather her unruly hair. He stood close behind her. Her breath hitched as his warm knuckles brushed against her skin. She closed her eyes, inhaled the fresh smell of trees, earth, and the man standing near. She pushed away the urge to lean back into his arms and let the exhaustion of the last few days take over.
She did not need to fight the urge for long for he was an efficient man and much too quickly he had her hair neatly bound within the hood again. Straightening, she thanked him without turning his way, afraid he’d see the wave of longing and intense desire that warmed her insides.
She pulled the eel from the fire, and after he was seated again, she handed him a plate of cooked eel and hard bread. She watched him take a bite and then another, his appetite ravenous. He nodded his appreciation as he chewed, his eyes gleaming with gratification.
Her faint smile turned to a frown when she realized she was waiting for his approval like some sort of love-sick maiden who had been locked in the dungeon for too many years. Here she was hoping the eel pleased Sir Joe. And for what purpose? Sir Joe was already in love, madly so, with his work. According to Shelly, he wanted nothing more in life than to gain his father’s respect. Sadly, his father might never fully appreciate the man his son had become.
“You outdid yourself,” he said after he swallowed. “Anyone who can make eel taste like a meal fit for a king, has a gift. I never thought I’d enjoy camping out,” he added, inhaling the night air, “but I must admit, a guy could get used to this.”
Alexandra took a seat on the log next to him and for a while they both ate and drank wine from the skin. His dark eyes settled on her after he finished, appreciative and unblinking. Shivers coursed over her. Could he possibly be feeling the same desire that swirled within and made her heart beat faster? Nay. She recognized that spark in his eyes. ’Twas the same interest he had shown while studying his artifacts back home. “What is it?” she asked after she took another bite of eel.
“I was thinking how incredible this is. Had someone told me I could visit the fifteenth century and spend an evening with a woman from that time, I never would have imagined someone like you.”
She lifted her chin. “And what sort of woman might you have imagined?”
“A hardened woman. A woman beat down by the demands of everyday life without modern contraptions to make her days easier.” He took a swig from the wine skin and then handed it to her. “Despite the hardships you’ve been dealt, you never gave up on life, did you Alexandra?”
She took the skin, enjoying the warmth that spread through her every time he said her name. “Nay, of course not,” she answered. “Life is a gift: the scent of a flower, the brightness of the moon.” She gestured toward her plate. “And let us not forget the gift of freshly cooked eel.” She took a swig of wine, then set the wine skin on the ground. “How could anyone give up on something as magical as life?”