The first thing Lydia saw when she woke up was a pair of yellow eyes. Next she saw the furry muzzle, then the fangs. She screamed.
The man appeared quickly, a man with deep black eyes, dark wavy hair that hung to his shoulders, and the kind of costume her favorite movie heroes wore in the period films she loved so well. He looked like something she'd dreamed.
"The wolf won't harm you," he said.
It was all too much. First the strange forest, then the dragon, then the real live knight, and now the wolf. Lydia squeezed her eyes shut and covered her head with the sheet.
The wolf’s rumbling growl sounded ominous to her, but the man laughed. "Stand, my fierce friend. She's a mere slip of a girl. See how she fears us."
Strange words spoken in a strange accent. If she lay under the covers long enough, would she wake up in her own bed in her apartment in California?
Cowering under the covers, she winced, then gingerly touched her shoulder. It was tightly wrapped, and some foul-smelling salve oozed from underneath the white cloth. Safe from prying eyes she inspected herself.
Good grief. She was naked. And that odious salve was slathered practically all over her.
Had that gorgeous knight undressed her? And whose bed was she in?
She was rapidly using all the air under her sheet. A silk sheet. Soft as angel wings. She wished she could say the same thing for the mattress. What had they stuffed it with? Corncobs?
"I'm glad to see you awake, Victoria."
Victoria? Had she somehow ended up in the middle of somebody else's life?
"I've prepared food for you."
She didn't want food. All she wanted was her old life back. Was this some kind of karmic payback for telling Trent Brandon he was lower than a wart-covered toad?
She felt as if she were going to suffocate under her covers. To conserve oxygen, Lydia took short, shallow breaths.
"It's a nutritious mushroom soup. I gathered them in the forest while the wolf kept watch over you."
Great, that was all she needed. Poison soup. A perfect end to a perfect day.
"I'm a patient man. You can't stay under the covers forever, Victoria."
That did it. If there was one familiar thing left to her, it was her name. She flung the silk covers back. Pain stabbed her, and she lay in the bed completely exposed before she could recover enough to move. Flushed scarlet under his steady gaze, she eased the sheet upward until it was tucked securely tinder her chin.
"Who the hell is Victoria?" She'd meant to snap out her question with the authority of a drill sergeant, but her voice was as weak as the rest of her.
"The lady has a temper as well as a tongue."
He set the soup on a low table beside her bed. Without a doubt he was the most sinfully delicious looking man she'd ever seen. The white shirt he wore was open to the waist and bared most of his chest. Broad, with dark olive skin finely sprinkled with black hair, his chest was the kind women dreamt about when they were in bed alone at night fantasizing about the man who is going to come and rescue them. Add perfectly chiseled features, dark eyes, and a body to drool over, and you had the man of your dreams, a man who might have stepped down from the cover of one of the historical romances in her bookshop.
"You are Victoria," he said.
"You've got the wrong girl, buster."
What she wanted to do was swing her feet over die bed and march out as if she were a queen. Any fool would know that queens stomp around naked when they get mad. What she did instead was hold the sheet around her as she eased her legs over the edge of the bed.
"I am not Buster, I am Dragon."
She had barely gained her feet when he scooped her up.
"Put me down," she yelled, though the truth was he'd saved her from falling flat on her face. But she wasn't about to thank him. "I'm going home."
"You're not going anywhere."
She could tell by the set of his jaw that he was not a man to be argued with, but he might as well learn that she was not the kind of woman to be bossed around. Not even Trent had dared that.
"Want to bet?"
She doubled her fist, hauled off, and socked him right in the face. He didn't even flinch. What was worse, he laughed. She didn't know whether he was laughing at her ineffectual blow or whether he was amused that she'd let go her sheet. It slithered to the floor like a snake.
And there she was, wallowing in his arms without a stitch. It would have been bad enough to wallow around naked with an average-looking man, somebody she'd known for years, perhaps somebody with crooked front teeth and a cowlick that wouldn't comb down. But she was wallowing in the arms of a dangerously appealing stranger.
"Put me down," she yelled again, but he'd already ignored that demand, and what did she expect but more laughter. "I don't know who you are . . ."
"I've already told you. I am Dragon."
"Yeah, well I'm the Mona Lisa, and I'm getting out of here." She kicked and flailed, annoyed at her own weakness.
"Mona Lisa?" He was either the best actor she'd ever met, or he had never heard of one of the most famous paintings in the world. "Which of these names do you want me to call you, Mona Lisa or Victoria?"
"I don't want you to call me anything, you barbarian."
"I'm not a barbarian. I'm a knight."
His voice carried just enough conviction to give her pause. Could it be possible? Her hands shook as she raked her fingers through her hair.
"Look, if this is some kind of joke, it's not funny." She hurt all over and felt wobblier than a newborn baby lamb. She didn't even care anymore that she was buck naked. All she wanted was her own bed, her own apartment, her own life. She'd even be willing to talk to Trent Brandon if that's what it took to get home. "Please ... I want to go home now."
The man who called himself Dragon, the man who claimed to be a real live knight laid her on the bed and covered her with the silk sheet as tenderly as a lover. Braced on his hands, he leaned so close, she could see every delicious detail of him. It was cruel to put a man like him in the path of a jilted woman who'd been recently beat up by a dragon.
Lydia wondered if she was going crazy. That had to be it. She was still sitting in her chair in her apartment, and she'd gone stark raving mad. If she could find the telephone, she'd call Uncle Michael to come get her.
"Can I use your phone?"
"Phone?"
She closed her eyes, and to her mortification felt the hot press of tears. "Please take that costume back to wherever you rented it and tell whoever hired you that I've learned my lesson, whatever that's supposed to be."
He hovered over her, pressing her against the mattress, and when she dared risk a peek, she saw genuine concern in his eyes.
"Please just let me use your phone," she whispered.
He brushed his fingertips over her cheeks, gathering her tears with a tender touch that felt like starlight falling on her face. Suddenly there was nothing in the room except him and her. He held her tears in his cupped hand, and she felt as if he held her soul.
Then as abruptly as it had come, the tenderness vanished.
"What is this thing you call a phone?"
"You're joking, right?"
"No." His puzzlement was real, and Lydia felt a chill spread to her bones that had nothing to do with her injuries.
Up until that moment she'd believed there was a logical explanation for everything—the man on the bed, the wolf, even the dragon. Slowly she looked around the room. The walls were stone, the windows narrow openings without glass, let alone curtains. The furniture was stark, austere, in a style totally unfamiliar to her. What was more, she had a gut-deep feeling that it was authentic.
The dizziness came back, and she thought she was going to faint again. Lydia fought the pain and nausea, fought to stay awake.
"Where am I?" she whispered.
"Camelot."
o0o
Witches weren't supposed to cry.
Dragon watched, fascinated as tears rolled down the woman's cheeks, soft cheeks, velvety skin tinted golden by the sun. He resisted the temptation to touch her face once more, to gather up the star-like tears that glistened there.
Tender feelings were forbidden for the enemy, and surely she was the enemy. His duty as a knight was to protect his king at all costs. Was he failing that duty by harboring the enemy in his own home, his own bed?
Dragon left the woman's bedside and stood looking outside. The sky was clear blue. A hawk spiraled upward, then plummeted toward the earth, his cry of victory a death knell for the rabbit cowering in the bushes. The strong conquering the weak. It was always so.
The sorceress in his bedchamber was weakened by her wounds, by the three days of fever and pain. He'd sat beside her, swabbing her hot face and body and listening to her fever-induced ramblings. She'd talked of strange places, places he'd never heard of, Mississippi and California.
Where were these places? And why was she there?
He had to find out while he was still stronger than she. He knew the power of magic, and that no mere mortal, even one of Arthur's knights, could stand against such a force. Merlin had proved that.
There was no limit to the mischief the witch in the bed was capable of. Already she'd stirred his heart to softness. As he approached the bed he wished for his sword.
"Where do you come from?" He kept his distance but stood close enough to see her face.
She scrubbed at her tears with the back of her hand. "Do you have any tissues?" A look of pure distress crossed her face. "No, I suppose not." With that, she blew her nose on the edge of the sheet. "A shame to do this to silk, but what's a lady in distress to do?"
He was learning a lot about witches. He didn't know they had a sense of humor.
"I'm from California. Where are you from, really and truly, and don't you dare say Camelot."
"Camelot," he said, suppressing his smile.
"If I had my knife, I'd cut out your lying tongue." She glanced frantically around the room. "Where are my things?"
"Your things are here." Dragon had tied all her possessions into a bundle. He lifted it up to show her, but he wasn't so foolish as to return the tools of her trade. Who knew what potent spells she could cast with the little black box and the clothes that changed color when you touched them and the shoes that glowed with unholy lights. "I'm no thief, Victoria."
"Stop calling me that," she shouted, then sank back against the bed, exhausted. "Why do you call me Victoria?"
"Because of this."
Dragon rummaged in the bundle until he found the tiny garment she'd used to cover her womanhood. Bright red. The color of his face when he'd removed it. Even now, merely touching it made him feel flushed.
He held them up for her inspection. "I never knew a person who wore her name on her clothing."
Only a woman could go from tears to laughter so quickly. Was she laughing at him or at her own name?
"My name is Lydia, and would you please quit fondling my panties?"
"I'm not fondling your panties."
But he was. Hastily he stuffed them back into the bundle. What strange word was this she used? Panties. He mustn't let her know he was unfamiliar with such a word. He'd already revealed his weakness by his admission about the phone. And he still didn't know who this Mona Lisa was. Nor a place called California.
He would extract the information from her, one way or the other. After she was well, of course. He had no stomach for tossing a wounded woman into the dungeon. Witch or no witch.
"Your soup is getting cold." He picked up the bowl and carried it to the bed.
"I don't want soup." Her face took on a wily look. "I'd rather have a hamburger with mustard and ketchup."
He kept his face impassive, not about to reveal his ignorance of the things she'd requested. "Soup builds strength. Here."
She shoved away the bowl he thrust at her. Without a word he sat on the bed, hauled her close, and tipped the soup into her mouth.
"This is what happens to stubborn wenches who refuse to eat."