One Knight Only_SKelly

  One Knight Only

  An SK Private Label Story

  Sahara Kelly

  © 2011 SK Private Label Publications

  Cover copyright 2011 Sahara Kelly

  Dedication

  I write this book for the folks who—like me—are fascinated and enchanted by Renaissance Faires. For those gals who share my quickened heartbeat, eager excitement and urge to don a corset, and for those guys who willingly slip into boots and a cloak, then grab a sword to defend us buxom wenches from inflated prices at vendor stalls. I love the chance to step back in time for a day, and I hope you have fun sharing this journey with my characters and me.

  My thanks to readers who have welcomed my new stories with such enthusiasm; also to my friends who didn't understand at first but trusted me anyway…I'm very grateful. And to my own personal Knight in shining armor—thanks always, Partner.

  Chapter One

  Thaddeus Fisher gritted his teeth as his Audi bumped over the pothole-ridden track leading to the parking lot. Or, to be more accurate, the field that was pretending to be a parking lot.

  The turf was every bit as bumpy as the road, and even a smiling, neon-clad attendant waving him into the next available spot didn't improve his mood. When he finally turned off the engine, cautiously exited his vehicle and heaved a sigh of relief to find himself standing on relatively dry grass, he was greeted by a blast of unseen trumpets.

  Either several angels were as relieved as he was, or something important was happening somewhere.

  He turned to see a reproduction of castle ramparts edging one side of the field, complete with pennants waving in the wind, shields of various designs on the walls and a line of patrons waiting before several field-level barred windows.

  Yep. This was the right place.

  Tad sighed.

  Welcome to Ye Renaissance Faire.

  He knew what he'd find inside. Spill thy ready ducats into the hands of our merchants and be forever cursed with all kinds of useless junk. Much of which ye will cast into the nearest midden-cum-trash-bin no more than a couple of hours after bidding us farewell.

  And the cutesy signs—We accept Master Card and Lady Visa.

  As he strode over the greensward, he acknowledged he might be a bit biased. The last time he'd come to this fair in Carver, he'd been with a girl he'd been pursuing energetically for about a month. He'd sprung for a very expensive hand-sewn outfit, bought her several tankards of mead and gleefully anticipated a night of contemporary revelry, otherwise known as wild monkey sex.

  Sadly, the mead had disagreed with her and she'd gone home alone, with four hundred dollars worth of costume. His calls weren't returned and finally he heard she'd decided to move south and become a hostess at a theme park. With or without the gown he didn't know.

  It had left a bitter taste in his mouth and soured him on the whole medieval time-warp deal.

  And yet, several years later and many women wiser, Tad was back, fishing in his wallet for the requisite number of ducats—turned out inflation had hit ducats hard in the intervening period—and steeling himself to enter the fairgrounds through the turnstile nestled beneath a suitably intimidating gateway. Portcullis not included.

  The sights and scents were familiar, unchanging, reminding him of years gone by. There was the ever-present smoky barbecue fragrance, kicking his salivary glands into overdrive. He remembered there were many taverns gathered in one place, attracting folks with everything from enormous legs of roast turkey, simple but excellent soups served in hollowed out loaves of bread, and the more traditional fish 'n chips, burgers and whatever else appealed to the contemporary palate. Ale was big—literally. The yard of ale could be purchased at several vendors, either in a very expensive souvenir flagon or a simpler elongated beaker. Downing that much ale, from whatever vessel you chose, would most certainly necessitate a visit to ye olde porta pottie, tasteful blue cubicles tucked downwind.

  He watched a couple of costumed young women trying to gracefully negotiate the uneven ground in full gowns and corsets, their uplifted breasts wobbling precariously above the tightly laced garments. How the hell they were gonna hit the porta-potties without two friends holding up those skirts, he had no freakin' clue.

  Grinning to himself, he walked on. His quarry would be near the jousting field and at noon sharp there was a tournament. This would entail a couple of muscled young studs on horseback eliciting cheers from the ladies and various comments from the gentlemen surrounding the field of combat. There would be a royal box of sorts, a hastily constructed pavilion offering the king and queen of the Faire shelter from the sun's rays. Their courtiers would join them in colorful splendor.

  At one time, Tad would have loved to be a part of the show. They probably did the Faire circuit, he mused, spending most weekends in the spring through the fall wandering the country and entertaining those whose paths they crossed. Not unlike medieval minstrels of old. Except he couldn't sing, or juggle, or—he stared into one particularly horrible grey and squelching pit—mud wrestle. Especially not mud wrestle.

  Carefully picking his way around some of the wayward chunks of goop, he realized he was quite happy doing what he did. Running an upscale antique shop on Boston's elegant Newbury Street with his buddy Ian Mathews. And going on hunts like this to nail down another interesting acquisition for the store.

  Ian had been happy to let Tad take over this particular trip, even though it was Ian's turn in the rotation schedule they'd established for themselves. This was largely due to the newest presence in their lives—Marielle Todd.

  They'd both spent an incredible night with this woman, a ménage of historically magnificent proportions. But it was Ian who had found his way to Marielle's heart, and although Tad cared for her a lot, it was more as a friend. Cheerfully he ragged his best buddy to death with bad jokes and off-color humor, and then stepped aside, or—in this case—drove off, south to Cape Cod, leaving Ian alone to explore his new love.

  The Hatfield estate was being settled at long last, and both men had eagerly awaited the announcement. Their store, Time Travelers, was favored to handle the acquisition and disposition of the Hatfield scrimshaw collection. Ian's father had known one of the Hatfield family members way back when, and the association had been revived after the last remaining Hatfield cocked up his toes at the ripe old age of eighty-nine.

  It was how things happened in the world of antiques, dramatic TV shows notwithstanding. Estates were quietly bought and sold to settle debts, mostly to the IRS. Exquisite pieces of the past were moved to new homes, new collections and new owners who shared Tad's fascination with these mementoes of times long gone.

  All should have gone smoothly on this particular trip, mused Tad as he turned down past a blacksmith's stall and headed for the open space of the jousting field. He should, even now, be on his way back up Route 3 to Boston, a nice collection of scrimshaw on the back seat of his Audi.

  He shouldn't, under any circumstances, be wandering around a Renaissance Faire. With or without the extra "e".

  But thanks to the annoyingly absent A.J. Ashford, executor of the Hatfield antique collection, Tad Fisher was stuck in the past with several hundred fellow revelers.

  He let a frisson of anger lick at his spine for a moment or two. The appointment had been made with the estate attorney's office the week before. He'd arrived promptly on Friday at the designated time, after a long drive down the coast to the Cape.

  He'd been greeted politely and treated courteously, but the end result had been extremely irritating. A.J. Ashford was not present to dispose of the collection. The office believed Tad could make contact at the Renaissance Faire currently entertaining visitors in Carver. It was a weekend event, so if Tad cared to w
ait until Monday...

  Tad did not. He pulled his own professional courtesy around him like a cloak, refrained from snapping at the unfortunate legal clerk who had drawn the short straw in this clusterfuck, and left the office. He didn't even slam the door. Although he certainly felt like doing so.

  He'd taken a room for the night at a nearby hotel, treated himself to an excellent clam chowder and some fresh quahogs—both of which had mitigated his anger somewhat—and finished the evening watching the sunset with a finely aged single-malt Scotch at his side.

  It could have been worse, for sure.

  Today, in the midst of ye olde Faire, it was.

  Another blare of trumpets distracted him from his thoughts and he looked across the confluence of several well-trampled paths to see the jousting field. Spectators were just beginning to ring the area, standing behind the sturdy fences and fanning themselves in the warm autumn sunshine.

  Following the directions given him by the attorney's office, Tad walked past the field and through a gate marked "private" in a high fence, carefully closing it behind him. He was now behind the scenes, where horses and their riders jostled in preparation for the upcoming event out of sight of the attendees.

  "Help you?" A tall man in colorful medieval clothing walked up to Tad. "This is staff only, bud."

  Tad nodded. "Yeah, I know. I'm looking for Ashford. A.J. Ashford. We had an appointment. The Hatfield attorney sent me."

  "Ah, okay. Whatever." The man shrugged, sending ripples down the tunic he wore. There were some serious muscles under the loose cotton shirt, realized Tad.

  "This way."

  Carefully watching their footing, they picked their way across a paddock to a large barn, which was now being used as a stable. The Medieval Hulk led him inside and Tad's nose immediately twitched at the strong and pungent smell of horse. Up close, it was very distinctive, overriding the scent of food wafting throughout the grounds.

  Tad had learned to ride years ago, cherishing the secret ambition of slapping on a Stetson and a pair of Colt 45s. Or whatever cowboys had used. Sadly, the riding community in Magnolia, north of Boston, was more into dressage and polo than recreating the gunfight at the OK Corral. So his riding career had been briefer than he'd anticipated. No tears were shed, since his nasal passages had never completely accustomed themselves to the fragrance of sweaty equines. He supposed one got used to it, but for his part he'd rather not. These days, his horses of choice were the ones under the hood of his Audi.

  "Yo. A.J." Mr. Chatty hollered into a stall. "You got company. Some lawyer."

  Tad didn't bother correcting him, just waited for A.J. Ashford to emerge. He was envisioning some sort of squire-type-cum-stablehand. So it was an enormous surprise when a small blonde figure emerged wiping her hands on a grubby cloth.

  "Where?"

  "Over there." Muscles gestured with his chin toward Tad then looked down at her. "You done with Moses?"

  "Yep. He's okay, Joe. Just go easy on him. I still don't like the look of that saddle sore, but it's healing and I've dressed it. Keep your armor away from it, if you can."

  A grunt seemed to end the conversation and Tad found the strength to close his mouth, which had fallen open at the elfin vision before him. She was petite but rounded, her voluptuous shape revealed by a tight gown, cut low in front. Her blonde hair flew every which way, long fronds seeming to dance around her head and through the flowers and ribbons completing the magical look. Her dress was blue and there wasn't a speck of dirt on it—a miracle in and of itself, given the surroundings.

  But all these things registered as vague and insubstantial details on Tad's consciousness because he had a growing suspicion he knew who A.J. Ashford was.

  She stopped short as she got her first good look at him. "Oh my God. Tad?"

  Recovering from his temporary mental paralysis, Tad attempted a smile. "Drina? Is that you?"

  It seemed as if the little faery creature grew in stature as she squared her shoulders, tossed the cloth aside and marched toward him.

  "Yes, Tad. It's me." She tensed. "You motherfucker."

  Her left hook to his chin came out of the blue and knocked him flat on his ass.

  *~*~*~*

  "You need help?" Joe Tessarino appeared behind Drina and looked curiously down at the man sprawled on the dirt floor.

  "Nah. I'm good." She turned and patted his arm. "Go do your thing and be careful, Joe. Thanks."

  He nodded and walked away toward his waiting armor, stalwart in his support and—as always—taciturn. It was one of his charms. The other being that he was gay and didn't hit on her. She turned back to her vanquished foe. "Get up off your ass, you jerk."

  He sat up, rubbing the side of his face. "Jesus fucking Christ, Drina. What the hell's the matter with you? You hit me."

  "I should have done it a long time ago. When you stole my Bjork CD and burned it."

  "Shit. Are you still pissed off about that? It must've been damn near twenty years ago now." He staggered awkwardly to his feet and attempted to brush dirt of his neatly pressed khakis. Even in casual attire, one would never mistake Thaddeus Fisher for anything but a sharp dresser.

  "I've wanted to slug you ever since. I never forget something so devastating." She huffed out a snort.

  "Then you've obviously wasted the intervening years." He straightened and glared down at her. "Most women would have moved on from a junior high school incident. I see you haven't. Although your language has gotten worse."

  "You were an asshole then, Tad, and now you're a lawyer. Talk about not moving on." She looked around. "And where's your other half? Ian not lurking anywhere?"

  "My other half, as you put it, is spending the weekend with his woman. Enjoying a mature adult experience, which I'm going to suppose is something you wouldn't understand."

  She gritted her teeth as she looked at him, taking in his tousled brown hair with the golden, sun-bleached highlights, his warm hazel eyes and the solid body underneath. He'd certainly aged nicely. Of course, he was still a rat, but now he was a good-looking grown-up rat. Drina ignored the little thrum of feminine interest. This was Tad the Bjork-burner, for God's sake.

  "Why are you asking for me? What do you want?"

  "I wasn't asking for you, specifically. And first off, I'm not a lawyer. I was sent here by the lawyer for the Hatfield estate to find A.J. Ashford, executor of the antique legacy. When you suddenly changed names, I don't know. Believe me, if I'd any idea..."

  She bit down on a tiny ache. "If you'd known it was me, you wouldn't have bothered, I suppose."

  "Don't be silly." He turned to follow her as she moved away from him and headed toward the gate to the main fairground. "I needed to get some papers signed and pick up an acquisition for the antique store Ian and I own. The scrimshaw collection was promised us by the dear departed Hatfield some fifteen years ago." He put his hand on her arm. "It's all legal, Drina. Business."

  She stared at his hand, warming her skin through the fabric of her sleeve. "It always was, wasn't it Tad."

  "What?"

  "Never mind." She shook herself free of him. "Come with me. We need to clear this area now before the knights mount up. Some of the horses are still getting used to armored riders. They get skittish."

  "They're not the only things." Tad muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Drina to hear him. "Are you sure you're A.J. Ashford?"

  "Mom remarried." Drina answered him briefly.

  "Ah. I didn't know."

  "No reason why you should." She sniffed and lifted her nose in the air.

  They went through the gate and shut it securely. Then Tad grabbed her and spun her around, pinning her against the aged wood fence. "Now listen up, Drina. When I last saw you your name was Audrina Franklyn. We were in school together for a while in Boston. Then you moved away. That was it. And yes, I took your damn CD. I hated Bjork and I wanted you to notice me."

  Drina opened her mouth to respond, then shut it again as the impact of what
he said sank in. "You wanted me to notice you?" She curled a lip. "You had an odd way of showing it."

  "What did you expect? I was...what...fourteen maybe? At that age, most boys don't know how to say hello to a girl without making asses of themselves, let alone tell her they'd like to be friends. Or more."

  "I—" She paused, not quite sure how to answer. She sure as hell couldn't tell him about the hours she'd spent spinning silly girl fantasies about him, imagining him falling at her feet and professing undying love for her. She'd been thirteen. Those hormones had hit hard.

  Nor could she tell him about the many times she'd read about him in various papers later on, even going so far as to raid the library for copies of magazines specializing in antiques. That would mean admitting she knew he wasn't a lawyer and had been keeping tabs on him, quietly, for far too long.

  No, she absolutely did not want him to know any of these things. If he did, he might well put that sharp brain of his to use, add two and two together, and realize she'd had a crush on him for...just about forever.

  Drina didn't want that at all. Because she'd very carefully set up this entire scenario—Tad, the Hatfields and the scrimshaw.

  It was all a ploy. She considered it to be a masterfully strategized ploy but it was a ploy nonetheless. However, if it worked she'd get Tad frickin' Fisher out of her head and her heart at last.

  The plan was quite simple and stage one—get Tad to come to her—had been accomplished. Stage two would probably be quite easy. Fuck Tad's brains out and make sure the vice was versa'd.

  Stage three? Say goodbye to him and move on with her life.

  Easy as pie.

  Chapter Two

  Drina scurried through the growing crowd toward the structure that served as the royal box. "You're going to have to wait." She tossed the order over her shoulder. "Around here somewhere. This is going to take about twenty minutes or so."