She had no idea what he was looking for as they plodded deeper and deeper into the state forest that bordered the farmer’s property. But he was definitely looking for something. Scanning the trees, eyeing everything around them, until finally, he nodded and drew his horse to a halt.
“This will do nicely.”
M. C. looked around. “What will do nicely?”
“This spot. To make camp.” He dismounted and walked to her horse, clasped her waist in his big hands, and lifted her down. As soon as she put weight on her legs, she felt the burn and pull of muscles she didn’t know she had. Her rear end hurt. Al saw her wince, and smiled. “No doubt it will be worse in the morn. If I could have spared you the riding, I would have.”
She shook her head and limped toward a soft patch of ground to sit. Al led the horses away from her, to a stream she hadn’t even noticed before, and let them drink. Then he took an ancient-looking length of rope from one of the saddles, slicing it neatly in half with a dagger he’d pulled from his boot. “I’ll picket them nearby, where there’s grass,” he said, and led the horses farther along the stream’s bank.
M. C. leaned back on her hands and wondered what she’d got herself into this time. She was stuck here, alone with Al in the middle of the forest, for the night. Al, who’d somehow wound up with the idea that she was burning up with lust for him. Not that he wasn’t attractive. He was. Very. Okay, so he wasn’t the kind of man she’d toss out of bed for eating crackers, but he wasn’t her type, either.
She frowned, realizing how little sense that thought made. Her types—the types she’d usually ended up dating, way back when she’d still been dating at all—were losers. Oh, they always seemed okay at first. But then they’d reveal themselves. There was Mike, who’d kept hitting her up for money. Kevin, who’d been busted for dealing drugs after their second date. And Tom, who’d been married. The slug.
And there was Al. A guy who put honor above everything else, who could handle a sword like some kind of master, and who was so polite it was sickening. A guy who’d refused to leave her until he knew she was safe.
Definitely not her type. Al was no loser.
Problem was, he had to leave. But why was that so important, anyway? It wasn’t like she was going to go and fall in love with him or anything. Why not enjoy the guy while he was here?
He appeared then from the trees, his arms loaded down with limbs and deadfall. Dropping the pile to the ground, he shrugged out of his coat and crouched beside it. His jeans pulled tight to his backside when he crouched like that. And the black T-shirt he wore clung. He had great arms. Hard. Nice.
M. C. got up, deciding to keep her thoughts in line by keeping busy with other things. “I’ll help gather wood,” she said.
“Nonsense, lady. Gathering wood for the fire is a man’s job.”
Aha. There it was. She’d known there had to be something wrong with him. No man could be as perfect as he was beginning to seem to her. He was a chauvinist.
“This is the twenty-first century, Al. There are no men’s jobs or women’s work anymore. Women in this day and age can be police officers or firefighters or world leaders if they want to. And men cook and clean and change diapers.”
He went still, his back to her, still crouching over the fire he’d begun to lay on a bare spot of ground. “I have offended you,” he said softly. “I am sorry, Lady Hammer. Chivalry... is a part of being a man, in my time. It is difficult to understand how it can have become an insult in only a few centuries.”
“Chivalry.” She repeated the word.
Sighing deeply, Al resumed piling dried leaves and twigs, adding larger pieces of wood on top of them. “Yes. The men of my generation are not fools, Mary Catherine. It has never been a matter of believing a woman incapable of doing heavy work. Only a matter of believing she should not have to do it.”
“I see.”
He straightened, turning to come close to her, and then dropping to one knee in front of her. “I do not think you do. In my time, Mary Catherine, we cherished our women. Treated them as the precious, beloved creatures they are. The only hope for the continuation of our race, the mothers of our children.” He took her hand in his, tracing its contours with the tip of a forefinger. “Look at this hand. Beautiful, delicate...capable, yes, but small and fragile.” Then he turned their clasped hands over, so his was on top. “Mine, however, is large, hard, and callused. Rough work, unpleasant tasks...are beneath a creature as magical as a woman. She...you...should be adored, treasured—respected as the beautiful being you are. The mother of mankind. Not asked to bruise this lovely hand on something as far beneath you as gathering wood.”
She couldn’t breathe. His voice had gone soft and deep, and it touched nerve endings somewhere inside her that came to life all at once. Then he brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently. “A woman like you should be given anything she desires.”
“A-and...what if what she desires is to help gather firewood?”
He lifted his head away from her hand, but it tingled where his mouth had touched. Holding her gaze pinned to his, he smiled slightly. “Then she should gather firewood.”
“You...don’t think I’m too weak for the job?”
“Weak?” His brows rose. “I’ve never known a woman with your strength, Mary Catherine. But even the most fragile female has the ability in her to capture a man’s heart—to bear his children. Surely the latter task takes far more strength than to gather branches from the forest floor. More strength, perhaps, than that of any man.”
“I imagine so.”
“I’ll start the fire,” he told her. “If you wish to gather more wood, then do so. But if you’d rather rest from the ride, consider me your humble servant.” He bowed his head.
For just a moment she had the craziest feeling that she was some kind of queen, and the grass underneath her a throne. Whoa, what a sensation! She had to concede he wasn’t exactly a chauvinist. There was, she decided, a difference between chauvinism and chivalry.
Al rose and returned to his pile of kindling, pulling a flint stone from his pocket and crouching again.
Mary Catherine got up and went to crouch beside him, reaching into her own pocket. “You can put the stone away, Al. I have something better.”
He eyed the lighter in her hand. “Another wonder of your modern world?”
“You’re gonna love this,” she said, and she flicked the lighter. He smiled when a flame appeared. She touched it to the dried leaves at the base of the pile and watched the flames lick up at them, catch, and begin to spread to the kindling.
“Wonderful,” he said.
M. C. sat back on her heels as the fire took hold, and she began to think that maybe being up here with him all night wasn’t such a terrible thing.
“So, did you mean all that stuff you said about women, Al, or is that a line you use to charm them out of their pantaloons?”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I meant it.”
“You really believe a woman can do just about anything a man can?”
“Some women,” he said. “You, for example.”
“That’s good, because I want to ask you to do something for me. And it might not be the kind of request you’re used to getting from women.”
He met her eyes, a reflection of the growing fire dancing deep in his own. “Ask me anything, Mary Catherine.”
She smiled at him. “Teach me how to use that sword of yours.”
His eyes opened wide, but then his lips curved, and he shook his head slowly. “Why should that request surprise me coming from you? If you wish to learn, Mary Catherine, I will teach you.”
This night was looking better and better.
“But first,” he said, “I will find us something to eat.” He added larger pieces of wood to the fire, then rose, glancing around the woods. “I saw signs of deer nearby. Also possum, and quail.”
“Um, I’d rather go hungry than eat a possum, Al.”
He bowed slightly. “Then I shall not bring one for your dinner.”
* * *
He didn’t bring her a possum. He brought a wild turkey big enough to feed a dozen people. M. C. had busied herself gathering more firewood and making a neat stack of it. She’d checked on the horses twice, and was beginning to get bored and more than slightly worried about Al, though she knew she probably should have known better. Then he showed up with the turkey. He’d quite chivalrously taken care of the nastier parts of preparing wild game far away from camp, lest her delicate female stomach protest.
She was glad of it, too.
This bird he brought was ready for the oven. Or the campfire, in this case. It didn’t look anything like what she was used to seeing in the grocery stores or on Thanksgiving tables. It was skinnier, longer, and not as smooth and shiny.
She was surprised when he began cutting it up with his dagger. It was stupid of her to have expected him to roast it whole, she mused; it would have taken half the night. Then he skewered hunks of meat, and using forked branches to hold them up, set them to cook over the fire.
Before long the tantalizing aroma had her stomach growling out loud. He pretended not to notice, but she knew he had to hear it. Then she wondered why she cared.
He turned the meat until it was done, then handed her a sizzling, perfectly browned breast portion. One bite and she was in heaven. “God, this is good,” she mumbled, and ate some more.
Al seemed equally enamored of his own helping of turkey. But as M. C.’s stomach got full, her mind turned to other matters. “Al, how did you get this bird without a gun?”
He reached down to his boot and withdrew the dagger. Then replaced it, as if he had answered her question.
“But...you couldn’t just sneak up on the bird and—”
He shook his head. “The dagger is perfectly balanced. An excellent throwing blade.”
M. C. blinked. “You threw your knife at the turkey? And you hit him?”
Al tilted his head. “It would hardly be worthwhile to throw the dagger and miss him, Mary Catherine.”
“Oh. Well, how practical.” She finished her meat, licked her fingers, and got to her feet. “So will you show me how to use the sword now?”
“Of course.” He got up as well, his rapier dangling from a belt at his waist. He wasn’t wearing the coat now, so the sword was in plain sight. M. C. stepped forward and reached for it. Al dodged her, shaking his head. “Non. You must learn before I entrust you with the actual weapon.”
M. C. frowned at him. “How am I supposed to learn without a sword?”
“I brought you a... a practice sword,” he said, and nodded toward the large tree behind her. She saw a long, narrow stick—a branch with all its twigs and leaves stripped off—leaning against the massive trunk.
“You want me to use that?”
“For now,” he told her. “Trust me, Mary Catherine. I have no desire to lose a hand or to see you lose an eye when you make a misstep. This will be safer.”
“You sound like my mother. ‘You could put an eye out, Mary Catherine.’ ”
“A wise woman, your mother. It would be a shame for harm to come to such beautiful eyes.”
She averted her “beautiful” eyes now, turning to pick up her stick instead of letting him see her blush yet again.
“They’re like rich brown velvet, you know,” he went on.
“Or mud,” she replied.
Al chuckled, and it did something wild to her insides. He had a sexy laugh—she’d give him that much. She gripped her stick and turned to face him. “So what do I do with it?”
Al lifted his sword, holding his opposite hand up in the air behind him. “En garde, my lady.”