1NS 089 - A Hard Day's Knight - Cate Masters - Decadent 2012-02

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  A Hard Day’s Knight

  Copyright © 2012 by Cate Masters

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-215-3

  Cover art by Fantasia Frog Designs

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com

  A Hard Day’s Knight

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Cate Masters

  ~DEDICATION~

  To Gary, ever my knight in shining armor.

  Chapter One

  Stifling a yawn, Lance stretched out his legs as the Human Chess Match scattered across the oversized board under the scrutiny of the overly made up queen. How had he let Kurt talk him into coming here? Of course, the Castillo Resort’s grand style appealed to him, but the medieval-themed dinner? Medieval Merriment, indeed. He abhorred it and its ragtag imitation of everything he held dear.

  Catching Kurt’s eye, he shot him a tight smile. Why had the man insisted he tag along with him and his new girlfriend? Obviously smitten, they paid him scant attention.

  When she rose to excuse herself, Kurt finally turned to him. “Isn’t Darien great?”

  If one tolerated a woman with hair shorter than his own. “Lovely.” Lance crossed his arms and slumped. “Congratulations.”

  Beer breath tainted the air. “We have a surprise for you.”

  Like a fox trapped by hunting dogs, Lance froze. “Oh?” His friend had pestered him for weeks to try the 1Night Stand service. Lance had refused, with good cause. Hadn’t Kurt mentioned the owner, Madame Evangeline, used this resort’s facilities?

  Kurt’s smile tightened into a grimace. “You’re here to meet your date.”

  Lance contained his scowl. Barely. “No.”

  Kurt’s eyes flared wide. “Yes.”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow for Sedona. You knew that.” For a shrewd businessman, Kurt sometimes acted like a buffoon. Affable, but a buffoon nonetheless. Unless it truly was an act?

  Kurt clasped Lance’s shoulder. “That’s what makes this perfect. You meet her, have a little fun, and then, pfft.”

  “Pfft?” What in blazes did that mean? Lance threw a pitiable look at him before concentrating on the board, where human chess pieces disbanded and swarmed to its edges.

  The match ended, the audience scattered too.

  “Hey, you did such a great job teaching the fencing workshop, I wanted to throw in a little bonus. I had a tough time convincing Madame Eve to go through with it, too. She wasn’t thrilled about hooking up a Castillo Resort employee. She’s very protective of Castillo’s people, and her clients.”

  “How provincial of her.” Reminded him of some less than scrupulous nobles.

  “Not at all. She’s concerned for their welfare.”

  Lance hardly heard Kurt as actors strolled along the outer edge of the board. A blonde woman, the center of a trio, approached. A vision of loveliness, she moved with regal grace, hair cascading past her shoulders. Her forest-green gown hung to her calves, edged in gold piping, embroidery along the sleeves and bodice, beneath which white satin highlighted the green laces crisscrossing its front. She appeared so genuine, it put her out of context with the rest of them, as if she might have been displaced in time.

  For the first time in too long, Lance’s blood rushed through his veins, making him feel fully alive. He sat straight, mesmerized. An image seared through his mind: honey tresses tumbling past cream silk shoulders. Slender arms locked around his neck, rosette nipples scraping his bare chest as she undulated against him, her softness engulfing him, teasing him to such hardness he fought against crying out in pleasure, driving him to reckless abandon. She’d rocked him, body and soul. Possessed him so that he’d forfeited his honor. The stolen nights they’d shared haunted him, and he feared she’d returned to torture him again, ever out of reach. Trying to reconcile the vision in his head with the one approaching, he licked his dry lips.

  The woman who haunted him was not the one who walked toward him. Yet they were one and the same, he’d swear an oath.

  Hands full with three tall glasses of beer, Darien returned and scooted next to Kurt. “Did you tell him?”

  Kurt mumbled something and slurped.

  “Lighten up, Lance, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Darien’s muted squeal heightened his attention. “Oo, here she comes.”

  One of the three? Dread formed a cold pit in Lance’s stomach and he took the fresh mug of beer, tempted to apply its “lite” description to all of present day. With his luck, she’d be the raven-haired girl with the overbite. He detested women with dark hair. Brought back too many bad memories.

  “Gwyn!” Standing, Darien waved.

  The blonde waved back. Excitement coiled in Lance’s chest. He distantly registered Darien leaning against his arm, whispering something, and Kurt adding a comment and a guffaw. But the light glinting against her golden locks gave her an angelic appearance. He imagined his fingers working the laces along the front of her bodice, unfastening them, letting the full green skirt pool around her ankles to reveal that creamy silken skin he’d so missed. Craved.

  Hitching up her gown, she glided toward them like a swan across a lake. When she fixed her green eyes on him, he scrambled to his feet, dumbfounded as a peasant before a princess. He should have dressed better than a black knit polo and worn jeans.

  A punch to his shoulder jolted him.

  “Hey,” Kurt teased. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

  Lance snapped to the present. “Hello.” What did he say her name was? Gwyn? No, that would be too strange a coincidence.

  Kurt’s laugh had a nervous edge. “Don’t overwhelm her with your charm, Lance.”

  “Lance?” Gwyn’s brows furrowed.

  Ah, a voice mellow as honey mead, and almost as intoxicating. But where were his manners? “Lance Knight.” He bowed his head.

  Gwyn’s gaze sharpened. “Knight, as in knight of the Round Table?”

  Her words lashed his soul like a cat-o’-nine-tails. “Precisely.” As if the surroundings didn’t mock him enough.

  At his clipped response, Darien shot him an incredulous look.

  “I know, right?” Kurt’s chuckle mimicked a chipmunk. “When he told me, I said, surely you joust. So of course we had to bring him here.”

  Turning to Gwyn, Darien said, “It’s your break now, right?”

  She stared at Lance as she spoke. “For a few minutes. Then I’m filling in for a troubadour who called in sick.”

  Lance finally shifted his attention from her, but the force of her presence was a physical thing, shaking him to his bones. Past and present colli
ded, exploding in his head. His flight instinct kicked into high gear, but his legs wouldn’t budge, as if manacled.

  “But then you’re free?” Darien persisted.

  The maiden watched him as she spoke, her green eyes flashing with something akin to irritation. “I’m off work, yes, but I promised to hang out with some friends here later.”

  Darien took hold of her hands. “Have dinner with us.”

  Wariness flashed across her face. “Tonight’s the Pirate’s Feast. I promised I’d stay, but—”

  “Perfect.” Kurt glanced from her to Darien to Lance. “I love a good Pirate’s Feast, don’t you? Their crab cakes are excellent.”

  Lance hid his growing frustration behind a polite tone. “If you like crab cakes. And pirates.”

  Kurt’s glare held pain. Lance had wounded his friend, the first true one in a long time, and guilt suffused his frustration. Trapped, as surely as a fox.

  Gwyn cocked a brow. “You object to pirates?”

  “No such pirates existed in Medieval times.” Lord, he sounded haughty as the false queen.

  “Piracy has existed as long as ships sailed the seas.” The honey never left her voice, though her beautiful lips thinned.

  He couldn’t quiet his tongue. “Vikings, perhaps, pillaged other vessels during the period, but not these clownish thugs, with their yo-ho-hos and arrghs and matey talk.”

  With visible force, Gwyn turned pleading eyes to Darien. “I really shouldn’t stay. They might need me.”

  “But it’s Lance’s last night in Sin City. We need to send him off with a bang.” Kurt flailed his arms.

  Gwyn swiveled her cool appraisal at him.

  Kurt babbled an apology, only half-heard. Lance could only watch Gwyn, entranced by her fingers twining through the ends of the bodice laces.

  In his mind, his hands replaced hers, swiftly unweaving the binding. Casting her head back, her fingers instead threaded through his hair, urging on his mouth as he captured a hard, sweet rosette between his teeth, teasing its edges with his tongue. The hiss of air sucked through her teeth spurred his erection to the hardness of a sword, ready to be forged within her fires. Possessed by a singular madness, he freed her of her gown, her nakedness making the torture sweet. Murmurings of long ago echoed through his head, his true love’s grasp on his shirt delicate yet insistent as she lay back, hair fanning her head like a golden halo. Graceful legs twined his waist, binding as a silk vine of steel. Needing no encouragement, he followed her down, shoving his jeans away. Her hands met his around his cock, guiding him inside her. Such intense bliss sent shudders through him, and a slight moan escaped.

  “So we’re all good with dinner?” Kurt’s voice broke through. “Here? The four of us feasting with pirates, authentic or not?”

  Madness indeed. Caught in its haze, Lance had difficulty retrieving his senses, still enraptured. He met Gwyn’s inquisitive and peevish stare. To Kurt and Darien’s quick agreement, he and Gwyn reluctantly added their own.

  “Great.” Kurt beamed, then leaned in. “Better lay off the beer. You’re freaking her out.”

  With a hard blink, Lance withheld a response that he’d freaked himself out more. He swiped at the thin layer of sweat across his forehead.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for the set.” Gwyn made a hasty retreat.

  “See you in a while,” Kurt called after her. “Break a leg.”

  Darien kissed Kurt. “Be right back.”

  After she disappeared down the aisle, he grabbed Lance’s arm. “Come on, man. Show a little appreciation. Gwyn’s a great girl.”

  “I’m sure she is. For someone else.” It pained Lance to say it.

  Kurt blew a sharp breath. “Fine. Be an ass. But you will be nice during dinner, at least.”

  “I’ll be a perfect gentleman.” And once this night ended, he would leave and start over again in a new city, as he had for centuries.

  ***

  Gwyneth McCartney increased her pace through the costumed crowd, all too aware Darien was hot on her heels. And why.

  The guy. Since Darien’s first date with Kurt, she hadn’t stopped talking about 1Night Stand and how the dating service had found her the perfect guy. Not just for a one-night stand, either. Since their blind date, they’d spent every possible moment together.

  Gwyn knew better than to believe lightning struck twice.

  “Hey, wait up.” Darien’s voice carried through the crowd.

  She heaved a breath then wiped the frustration from her expression before turning. “I only have a minute.”

  “I know. But I want to be sure we’re okay.” Darien batted her big doe eyes. “I love you, sweetie. I want you to be happy.”

  Then let me find my own dates. “We’re good. And I’ll come to dinner, as promised, but not without reservations.”

  “Glad Kurt didn’t hear you say that. That’s a perfect joke setup.” She snorted a giggle, then her silliness subsided. “Anyway, good. You’ll have fun. If not….” She shrugged. “He’ll leave in the morning.”

  “No expectations here, believe me.” Especially after his less than gracious greeting. Such a shame. Handsome, she could check off her list—despite their steely hue, blue eyes coupled with black hair made her swoon. Sensitive, definitely not. Intelligent, probably; his crisp diction indicated a worldliness, if not book knowledge. Narcissistic, to be determined. “He hates Medieval Merriment, huh.” No need to phrase it as a question. He oozed a certain snobbery, the too-cool-to-be-here kind. Too bad. He’d never know how much he missed out on—including her. Unfortunately, that club had an extended membership. Not many guys shared her passion for all things medieval.

  Darien shrugged. “Not exactly. He looked lonely to me. But tonight we’ll fix that.”

  Gwyn bit her tongue. Literally. At Darien’s retreat, she waved, grateful to put that conversation to bed. The only thing that would be bedded tonight.

  Entering the Employees Only section, she hurried to the dressing room. A quick comb of her hair, pinch of the cheeks, and she rushed to the side stage.

  Brett, the lute player, adjusted his tunic. “Hey. Sheila’s about to announce us.”

  Her stomach fluttered with nervousness. “Do you have the set list?”

  After reaching into his back pocket, he handed her the sheet. “Same as usual.”

  Right, but it had been awhile. “Cover me if I flub some lyrics.”

  Onstage, Sheila finished a few announcements. “Put your hands together for the fabulous duo, Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  Butterflies turned flip-flops in Gwyn’s stomach. Yep, it had been awhile. Last time, the audience filled only half the semicircular forum. Today, they packed the place.

  She took her place beside Brett and grasped the mic from its stand as he strummed the intro. Scanning the onlookers, she caught sight of the man. Lance Knight. Yes, he should’ve worn a suit of armor. Then he might not have to speak to anyone. At the thought, her mood lightened, but she couldn’t stop imagining how stunning he’d look in full knight dress.

  Entranced by the intensity of his piercing gaze, his black hair falling in long layers to his shoulders—wide strong shoulders, set above a trim waist—her surroundings fell away as she stared. Only Brett’s hiss stirred her to continue.

  The first song, she managed to remember all the lyrics, but only by focusing on the sheet. The manager wouldn’t like that. She had to engage the audience. Rally them. Not an easy feat for the next song. Greensleeves. With the disdainful connotation of the lyrics, it made her wish she hadn’t worn this green dress. She let her voice ring out clear as she sang:

  Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

  To cast me off discourteously.

  For I have loved you well and long….

  Delighting in your company.

  Greensleeves was all my joy

  Greensleeves was my delight,

  Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

  And who but my lady greensleeves…
.

  If you intend thus to disdain,

  It does the more enrapture me,

  And even so, I still remain

  A lover in captivity.

  Much as she forced herself to avoid him, she kept finding Lance in the throng. Something made him stand out from the rest of the audience. Despite his casual dress, she had no trouble imagining him astride a thoroughbred, his wide, black cloak fanning behind him. The way he watched, without blinking, as if she sang only to him, sent hot prickles over her skin, but made her shiver, too.

  Damn. This would be a long night.

  Chapter Two

  A lover in captivity. As she sang the last line, the words pierced Lance’s heart.

  The woman must be a sorceress. It would explain the onset of insanity overtaking him. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. Her voice wound through him like a siren’s call, spiraling down his spine, tightening so he could barely breathe, existing only to hear her. See her. Need her.

  Enchantress! Another reason to be rid of her. He needed no one. It had to remain that way.

  Her song ended, she curtsied. Her retreat across the stage pulled him to his feet, clapping.

  Kurt elbowed him. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

  “Undeniably.” So far as singing went. Anything beyond, he’d reserve judgment. What if she’d woven a spell around all his senses? He shuffled out with the rest of the audience. His nerves tightened while they waited, Darien exalting her friend’s talents, Kurt agreeing too enthusiastically.

  The excitement of performing lent a peachy blush to Gwyn’s face, green eyes sparkling like a clear stream in sunshine. “I didn’t bring a change of clothes, so I have to stay in costume.”

  Lance gulped. The ensemble equally beguiled him. Other performers wore their attire like gaudy costumes, but Gwyn’s gown fit her as if crafted to her proportions, clinging to each curve and swell. How he longed to wrap his body around those same curves and swells.