A/N: So, we all survived the finale, lol. I'm enjoying reading all the great tags out there. Keep them coming! I hope you got the chance to read mine. Apparently, Ashley Gable personally confirmed via Twitter that my speculation about Jane and Loralei was correct. For you naysayers, I feel totally vindicated, lol.
I know some of you are very worried about this fic. Let not your heart be troubled. This is a fairy tale, and what do fairy tales always have? That's right: happy endings. This will be no different, so please don't despair. Even Cinderella and Snow White had bad days before their happy endings.
This chapter is much lighter than the last, for the most part, so I'll allow you to breathe a little before I get back to the darker action. Thanks for all the great reviews. I'll answer them very soon.
Chapter 12
They were fortunate, Summer and Kimball, to have found a forgotten clothesline in the village. In place of two pairs of breeches and rough linen tunics, hung the incongruous red garments of the Sisters of the Sacred Eye. Some busy wife hadn't gathered her clothes in off the line before nightfall. Summer couldn't help but laugh at the probable look on the hausfrau's face the next day when she saw nuns' habits instead of homespun on the lines. Hopefully, she'd be able to sell them somewhere, but likely she wouldn't even try for the inherent blasphemy of such a transaction.
"I'll send someone back here with payment when I get back to Sacraham," Kimball had whispered moments before from his place behind some bushes. He and Summer would both have to wear men's clothing, a prospect Kimball hadn't fully prepared for until he saw the outline of Summer's legs beneath the rolled up breeches. Too bad they hadn't hung boots on the line. Both now fully clothed, they stood regarding one another.
Kimball's eyes followed her petite yet shapely figure beneath the baggy borrowed clothing, all the way up to the shock of white hair hanging like pale silk to her waist. It glowed ethereally in the moonlight. He gulped, feeling his attraction to her as sharply as a stab in the gut.
"I thought novices had to cut off their hair," he said curtly, shooting her a question rather than the compliment he was too shy to give. She reached up a self-conscious hand to smooth the platinum locks.
"I couldn't do it," she said. "I told the nuns I had, though. It's been torture to sleep in my veil and wimple these past six months so that Sister Kristina wouldn't see. She probably thought I was being especially pious."
Kimball shook his head, squatting down to roll up his own too-long breeches above his still bare feet.
"'Beauty is vain, but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.' Proverbs 31:30." Kimball quoted with a faint smirk.
"'The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose,'" shot back Summer triumphantly. "William Shakespeare."
Kimball laughed aloud, and Summer smiled in admiration of the dimples that appeared as if by magic in his cheeks. A dog began barking nearby, and Summer instinctively placed a small hand over his mouth. At the first touch of his lips on her palm, they both stilled, going wide-eyed as they looked at each other. Her breathing hitched at their closeness, and Kimball's heart picked up speed. Slowly, she dropped her hand, but Kimball seemed enthralled now by her proximity.
He reached out and touched a lock of her tempting tresses. "I'm glad you didn't cut it," he said softly, finding the courage at last to say something complimentary.
She grinned. "So you are capable of saying kind things," she teased. He met her dark eyes again, fathomless in the dimness.
"When they're warranted," he said. He felt himself taking a step closer, but the damn dog barked, so he became immediately detached again. "We should be going."
They'd hung up the nun's apparel and went to their horse, which Kimball had tethered to their changing bushes. It would have been nice to have found a saddle, but Kimball didn't want to waste any more time in the village. Besides, now with the protective covering of his most sensitive areas, he felt he could bear the horse's bare back now. He grabbed hold of the reins and jumped upon the animal, then reached a muscular arm down to hoist Summer behind him again.
"Thank you," she whispered near his ear. He felt the familiar stirring of desire, but he resolutely tamped it down. Maliborough was still two days away, and he'd better learn to control his reaction to the former harlot, or he'd spend those days on top of her rather than astride this aging horse.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Just before dawn, they had ridden far enough that Kimball thought they could slow down. Besides, the old horse was naturally slowing its pace anyway, and Summer had kept complaining that she needed to relieve herself. He took them off the road and back among the trees. They could hear the faint running of a stream and they dismounted, leading the horse and its riders to drink. The grass was cold beneath Kimball's feet, and he swore every time he stepped on a hidden rock. Summer smiled secretly at his discomfort.
They knelt down and brought water to their mouths from cupped hands, and Kimball watched the sky begin to lighten above the distant hills.
"It smells so heavenly here," Summer exclaimed, realizing with pleasure that they'd alighted in a field of lavender.
"Nice," he said, when she'd gathered a bunch and held it to his nose. Then he sneezed, and she laughed, her eyes crinkling merrily.
He drank his fill and sat back, his hand going to his still aching head. The pounding of the road had taken its toll, and he decided to lie all the way down in the grass while his companion washed her face and hands, then slipped off to find an acceptable tree.
It felt like it had only been a few moments, but by the position of the sun when he awoke, he saw it must have been an hour at least. A pleasant weight warmed his side, and he saw that Summer had lain beside him, resting her blonde head on his chest. She was breathing deeply, obviously asleep, and he stiffened for a moment, then relaxed and allowed them both a few minutes' more rest. He glanced over and saw that she had thoughtfully tied their stolen horse to a tree, and it munched its breakfast lazily.
How long had it been since a beautiful woman had slept at his side? Too long, he mused, admiring her lovely hair in the morning light. All around them it did smell heavenly, but nothing compared to the sweet smell of the fairy child curled around him. He hated to do this, but they really needed to be up and moving.
"Summer," he whispered into her hair.
"Hmmm?" she murmured, still half-asleep. Her hand on his chest moved in what was clearly a caress, and he knew she must be able to hear the pounding of his heart beneath her ear. She rolled to her stomach to face him, her brown eyes soft and sleepy. He reached up to pull a sprig of lavender from her long hair, and his hand lingered in its softness. His gaze went from her eyes to her sensually shaped lips and back again.
"Do you want to kiss me, Kimball?"
He was momentarily startled by the bold question, but Kimball was nothing if not forthright.
"Yes," he said simply.
That was all the encouragement she needed. She practically crawled on top of him, the better to press her lips to his. At first it was just a gentle pressure, and their eyes drifted slowly shut, but then her small pink tongue traced the seam of his mouth, begging entrance. He opened for her, and welcomed her seeking tongue inside. Things grew very heated very quickly, and Kimball was more surprised with himself than with Summer's enticing undulations as she climbed further up his body. This sudden, uncontained lust was very unlike him; he who was usually so very in control.
His hands went to her head, holding back her curtain of hair as he delved more deeply into her mouth. He was suffused with the heady scent of lavender, the feel of her small, warm body, the taste of her honeyed lips and tongue. He heard a distant moan, realized it was his, then drew forth a moan from her when his hips lifted slightly into hers. There was no clearer indication that he wanted her.
Kimball's hands slid to her back, slipping beneath her tunic to find smooth, bare skin. She shivered against him, broke away from his lips to bury her face in the warmth of his neck. She rained kisses there, then moved to his earlobe, taking it between her teeth and giving him a gentle nip. He bucked up against her and she breathed a laugh into his ear. His hands tightened on her back and he moved his head to try to ensnare her teasing lips again.
Suddenly, all of Kimball's frenetic movements stopped, and he sat up abruptly, causing Summer to roll unceremoniously to the ground.
"Kimball!" she said with a surprised bark.
"This isn't right," he said, looking around him as if in a daze.
Summer sat up, panting with unfulfilled desire. She immediately became angry.
"Is it because I'm a prostitute?" she bit out. "I don't want your money."
But he wasn't really looking at her, not really seeing anything at all. She moved to her knees to look at his bewildered expression in the soft morning light.
"Kimball?" She waved a hand before his face. "What is it?"
"Why am I here?"
"What?"
"Where are we?"
Summer's first thought was that his head had been more injured than she'd thought, and she was feeling guilty that she might have encouraged their escape before he was ready to travel. Had she caused more permanent damage?
"We're just off the road leading to Maliborough Castle," she said slowly, as to a half-witted child.
"Maliborough?" And his eyes once again focused on her concerned face. He remembered riding in the rain, remembered the fall from the bridge. Remembered the last two days in the abbey. Remembered Summer. But for the life of him, he couldn't imagine why he was going to Maliborough.
"Why?" he asked her.
She shrugged. "I don't really know. You said you had important business there. I suppose you didn't think you knew me well enough to tell me what it was." She couldn't help the slight petulance in her tone.
Kimball got to his feet, absently reaching down his hand to help her up.
"It doesn't feel right to go there now. I think… I should go back home to Sacraham."
Summer's eyes narrowed.
"We, Kimball. Don't you mean we?"
He looked at her now, really looked. Her hair was a tousled mess, purple stems intertwined throughout. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, and her too-large tunic hung to one side, baring one white shoulder. Despite his disorientation, he certainly knew what he wanted with her.
He reached for her arm. "Yes, we. I haven't forgotten our bargain. I just don't remember anything else important."
"That's all right. You had a nasty blow to the head. Maybe that's what's causing you to forget."
He nodded. That made sense. He found the bump on his head and rubbed it thoughtfully. "We'll go back to Sacraham. I'm sure my people there will be able to tell me why I was going to Maliborough."
"Fine with me, Sir Knight, so long as you take me with you." Her smile was flirtatious again, and she kissed his cheek consolingly. "It will come back to you, I'm sure. Just don't forget about me."
Her eyes sparkled up at him, and he grinned at the enticing picture she made.
"I don't see that happening," he told her.
He'd gladly forget everything else in this world, just to become lost again in her arms, in the heat of her intoxicating mouth. He leaned down and took her lips in a brief though passionate kiss, then grabbed her hand and guided her back to their waiting horse.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Patrick hurried to beat the dawn, sneaking past Rigsby's sleeping form on the floor by the fire to go to the barn. He would re-hitch the horses, take every remnant of evidence that he and Grace had ever been there. Red John had told him the spell would begin at the rising of the sun, and he was to go back home to Maliborough to await the wizard's reappearance. Grace, he'd been assured, would be in her own bed that morning, awaken and not remember a thing that had passed. Likewise, Sir Minelli would be back in Sacraham, and Teresa would awaken, whole and healed, and free of any unpleasant memories. Or of him.
Leaving her had been the hardest thing he had done since watching the deaths of his family. He'd leaned down over her unconscious form, kissed her unresponsive lips. His eyes filled as he took in the features of her face, carefully committing them to memory. He didn't want to forget her, ever.
Eyes, look your last, he thought bitterly.
But this was the right thing—the only thing—to save her. He would rather die a thousand deaths himself than let her light leave this dark world.
"I love you, Teresa. No matter that you won't ever remember me, I'll take the memories of these few days with you to my grave. Go on and find someone to love, my sweet, but I swear no one will ever love you as much as I have. No one will ever admire your courage, your strength, your… exasperating stubbornness as much as I. No one."
He'd taken her limp body into his arms, absorbing her warmth for the cold days to come. He let her silken hair slide through his fingers, then, on a selfish whim, he laid her down again and reached for the scissors from her sewing box beside her bed. He reached for her hair again, snipping a good inch from beneath where it would hopefully go unnoticed.
"There," he said, smiling at his trophy. "I believe we are even now. A lock for a lock."
He folded it into one of her scented handkerchiefs. She might miss that, but he found he couldn't leave without some tangible proof that she'd existed for him, that this adventure with her hadn't been just a dream.
He kissed her yet again, then, noticing the faint lightening of the horizon outside her window, he squeezed her hand and left the room. The tears fell unchecked down his cheeks as Prince Patrick of Maliborough set out on the long road back home.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Teresa awoke with a start, and she sat up in bed. She felt strangely chilled, and when she looked down at herself, was shocked to see she was completely naked beneath the sheets. She gasped, looking around her bedchamber as if she expected a rapist to emerge.
She thought for a moment about the night before, but for the life of her could not remember getting into this bed, let alone completely disrobing before doing so. She remembered that she and Rigsby and Kimball had ridden out in search of wealthy travelers on the road, easy prey whose coins would improve the lives of the villagers. But she didn't remember waylaying anyone, or even coming back home.
She shook her head at herself. She must have been exhausted. She almost felt like she'd been drinking, but she rarely engaged in that activity. She rose and found her nightrail and wrapper, then went to check on her father. Sir Minelli was still abed, his familiar even snores filling the room. She shut the door and went downstairs to start breakfast.
To add to the surprises of the morning, she beheld Sir Wayne Rigsby, sleeping soundly on a blanket by the hearth. Why would he be in her house? He lived just a mile down the road. She pulled her wrapper more tightly at her neck. She took a deep breath and walked over to Rigsby, lying shirtless and shoeless beneath her father's lap blanket. His long legs stuck out comically beneath the small covering, and she nudged his side with her bare foot.
"Rigsby," she said.
He groaned a little in sleep and she toed him a little harder. "Rigsby!"
"Grace?" he said, and he pulled himself from a dream of a beautiful princess with fiery red hair. The image disappeared forever the moment his eyes opened.
"No, trespasser, it's Teresa."
"Teresa?" He was awake now, and pulling up the blanket to hide his bare chest.
"What the hell—" His face reddened. "Excuse me, milady, but why am I sleeping on your floor?"
She shook her head. "I have no idea. What happened last night? Don't you remember either?"
He sat thoughtfully a moment, a befuddled frown knitting his brow. "No. My last memory is of you and Kimball and I setting out on a ride. Then…nothing. It makes no sense. Did I—I mean, were we drinking spirits last night?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
A thought occurred to him, and he blushed furiously. "Nothing happened…between, uh, us…did it?"
He almost looked hopeful beneath his embarrassment.
"No!" she protested, so vehemently as to be almost insulting. "I mean, of course not. Maybe Kimball remembers…I'll call on him later. I was about to fix breakfast for myself and Father. Are you hungry?" She smiled, knowing that answer already. Rigbsy's appetite was notorious.
"Yes, milady." He reached for his discarded shirt, and Teresa went back up to her room to dress and give him some privacy.
And so their day, having begun strangely, went on to be a normal one, with only the thought of the night's pursuits ahead to keep them occupied as they went about their morning chores.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it enough to write a review.
And hey, if you have a minute, why not go to the Paint It Red awards and vote for your favorite "Mentalist" fanfiction, authors, and art! I don't know how to make links work on this site, so it would be great if someone posted a link—check the reviews everyone! Or, do a search and you should be able to find it easily. Just create an account and vote! Fanfiction writers do work hard to entertain us; it would be nice if they could get some recognition for all the great reads they provide for us.
