No money is being made from this. I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story. I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.
Many thanks to the beta team for this one. I felt really bad sending them such a long chapter, but they plowed through it like the fantastic editors that they are. I appreciate your fortitude. Believe me :)
For Maid Maleen, who I think sometimes understands these characters better than I do.
And for Hazelef, just know that it's bound to get better- It sounds trite, but it's true.
I'll shut my trap now...
"Love is not blind, it sees more not less; But because it sees more it chooses to see less." -Unknown
Chapter 21
Reagan awoke rather reluctantly, to a muffled sound coming from outside the door. Unfolding her stiff limbs, she could not remember crawling up on the bed and dragging one of the scratchy, heavy blankets over herself the night before. Reagan pushed herself up, the sudden movement making her head throb in pain before she sneezed, stirring up a latent cloud of dust.
Stumbling over the debris on the floor, she managed to reach the door before she heard the sound again. Someone was fumbling with the lock on the other side.
A brief moment of fear shot through her, bringing her fully alert. She rifled around for a second, managing to dislodge her dagger from her boot, before she gave the lock a vicious twist and threw the door open.
After the night she'd just had, Reagan was fully prepared to give who ever was on the other side what for.
"Oh, my!" A woman gasped, clearly startled before she pushed two younger girls behind her back instinctively. Reagan blinked at the women with sleep-deprived eyes, strongly resisting the urge to rub them in case she was imagining things.
It took her several long and confused moments to realize that perhaps these women were not a threat as she'd first thought.
"It has a weapon, ma'am." One of the younger girls whispered in fear, her eyes wide as she watched Reagan slowly begin to lower her dull little dagger.
"I can see that, Ada," the older woman snapped in a tone that clearly stated that she thought Ada should be quiet. Plastering a genteel smile on her soft round face the woman cleared her throat and gave a polite bow.
Completely confounded at their presence, Reagan's outstretched hand fell limply at her side.
"Good morn', my lady." The woman said, clearly relieved that Reagan had stopped pointing her knife at them. "His lordship has sent us. He thought you might be wantin' ta bathe and be desirin' some fresh…" she paused her voice trailing as she took in Reagan's ragged tunic and loose, ill-fitting breeches, a look of obvious disapproval in her brown eyes.
"Yes, well, we're here ta help ya." She finished before she barked; "Ada! Bitsy!" Reagan jumped at the woman's shrill voice, "get a move on!"
The younger girls scrambled to obey. Reagan watched in disbelief as the two wide-eyed maids stumbled in, staggering beneath their burdens of a tub, towels, sheets, embroidery frame, thread, fragrant oils, soaps, beeswax tapers, fruit, bedclothes and various other items that Reagan failed to count before it was all said and done.
Ada and Bitsy continued to gape at her as they finished filling the tub with ewers of steaming water. The older woman shooed them out, shutting the door in their faces. She awkwardly cleared her throat and looked at Reagan expectantly.
Feeling herself flush with embarrassment and clearly not knowing what to do next, Reagan curtsied to the woman and thanked her in a tight voice. The woman introduced her self as Wynn and curtsied back as was polite.
"No need to thank me, my lady. I'm only doin' what his lordship told me to."
"And his lordship is?" Reagan asked, finally gathering her wits.
"Why, Sir Lancelot of course. He woke me up in a terrible temper last night, claimed that you had to have these things first thing in the mornin'. So I says, I'll do my best." Wynn finished proudly.
Reagan glanced at the small wooden tub resting in the center of the messy room; it was filled with hot water, inviting curlicues of steam rising from it. Suddenly her skin felt itchy inside her clothes.
She looked at her pile of treasures with narrowed eyes. While she appreciated the thought, she was half tempted to throw some of the objects out the window completely just out of spite.
Just when she was convinced she could hate him wholeheartedly, Lancelot went and did something like this and it was almost impossible to stay mad at him.
"Beggin' your pardon miss, but would you like me to stay and help you dress when you're finished with your bathin'?" Reagan had to concede that she would love to be clean and don fresh clothes, but she had no way of getting her things from the servants quarters.
"Wynn, I would appreciate your help, but I have no clean clothes to change into. I'll make do with what I have," Reagan offered, hoping that her dismissal was kind enough. She'd not had servants growing up and she was not used to being waited on.
"Oh, his lordship has already taken that into consideration!" Wynn beamed at her, the expression filling in the lines on her face and making the woman look almost youthful. She scurried over to one of the piles that had been placed on the bed and withdrew a red bundle of fabric. She shook it out and presented Reagan with the garment.
"A dress?" Reagan asked flatly. Her ire returned full force at the proffered offering. "He has the gall to send me girl's clothes?" At her tone, Wynn looked at her confused for a moment, not understanding her displeasure at the fine dress.
"Excuse my askin', but you are a girl, aren't you, Miss?" Once again Wynn's warm brown gaze raked up and down Reagan's unkempt form. Her tunic was stained and her boots too big for her feet, but there was no mistaking her gender beneath the ill-fitting clothing.
"Yes, Wynn, I'm a girl." Reagan replied wearily. Walking slowly toward the dress, she fingered the soft red wool. Dainty little flowers had been embroidered on the bodice and down the long sleeves with black thread. It was probably one of the most beautiful dresses Reagan had ever seen.
"That bastard," she muttered.
"Miss!" Wynn gasped, obviously shocked. Reagan felt herself color beneath the woman's disapproving gaze. Obviously this woman felt the need to defend her generous guardian.
"Apologies, Wynn, I meant no disrespect toward his lordship." She did, of course, but there was no way of explaining the complexities of her relationship with Lancelot without making herself look even worse in the woman's eyes.
"Yes, well," Wynn said briskly, accepting her false apology. "Lets get you into the bath. I'm sure you're wantin' to be gettin' on with your day." Before Reagan could utter one word of protest Wynn was ushering her toward the tub. In a few swift movements Wynn had stripped Reagan of her clothing, leaving her red-faced and fumbling to cover herself in front of the strange woman.
"Don't look so embarrassed girl!" Wynn chastised. "Get in that tub before you catch your death. I'll take care of the bed and start cleanin'. His lordship is not a tidy man, but he's a good man," she finished, with more than a hint of fondness in her voice.
How this no-nonsense woman seemed to care for Lancelot was a mystery, but she obviously saw something in him that made her gaze seem downright affectionate and motherly when she spoke of him.
Reagan made good use of a fresh chunk of soap, scrubbing her hair and skin until she was pink and trying her best to ignore the servant woman while she washed. Once she was finished, Reagan stepped from the tub, reaching for a towel. Before she could grab it, Wynn was right there, wrapping it around her, patting her shoulders gently with her calloused hands.
"There you are, Miss. Now, let's get you dressed." Wynn walked over to the fresh pile of clothing, handing Reagan a chemise made of a material so delicate and transparent she could see her hand through it. Next came the dress.
Wynn proved herself to be a proficient ladies' maid, settling the garment over her and tying the stays in the back so that the bodice fit snugly. The dress was slightly too long in the sleeves and skirt and a bit too tight across the chest, but she could live with it. Reagan brushed wisps of wet, wavy hair out of her eyes as the woman appraised her.
"Oh, you are a lovely thing." She said softly, "you'd be even lovelier if it weren't for that hair." Reagan felt herself smiling despite the backhanded complement.
"Thank you, Wynn," she replied demurely. "How about I help you?" The woman tried to brush her off, but Reagan would not have it any other way. If there was one thing she was good at aside from growing plants, it was cleaning. She had nothing better to do and now that she herself was clean, she felt a renewed sense of energy.
Reagan started by clearing the table of its clutter. Wynn made halfhearted protests to try and stop her but Reagan ignored them.
When that was done and the table's surface wiped clean of its layer of grime, Reagan decided the massive trunk at the foot of the bed was the next best place to start. Wynn began to clean the ashes out of the now cold hearth, absorbed in her task.
Kneeling before the trunk, Reagan began to rummage through the pile of fabric inside, trying her best to decide what was dirty and what was clean. One could learn a lot about a person through their clothing. Reagan stuck her hand in the trunk blindly and smashed her fingers on something hard and small.
Pulling her hand back reflexively, she shook it and stuck it back in, reaching for the mysterious object. Wrapping her fingers around it, she pulled it free and was astonished to find a small figurine of an animal hanging from a thin leather strap.
Reagan studied it closely: it looked to be a tiger or a lion or some other beast. It was highly stylized and hard to tell, but she could see that it was hand carved and that some of the paint on it had been worn away, exposing the shiny surface underneath. Particularly on the animal's face as if someone or thing had rubbed against it over and over again.
"What is that you have there, Miss?" Wynn's curious voice made Reagan jump guiltily and she closed her fist around the figurine.
"Nothing," she smiled innocently, carefully tucking it away in the folds of her skirt, thankful for the first time that she was wearing a dress. She'd found the figurine buried in this trunk beneath layers of clothing and for some inexplicable reason Reagan wanted to keep the tiny carved beastie.
When it was all done and the tunics, over-tunics and breeches were folded and placed back in the trunk, Reagan had not discovered many things about the man these things belonged to. Lancelot liked to wear black clothing; that much was obvious.
Aside from the tiny carved beast, she'd found two fragile hair combs made of bone, a silver belt buckle fashioned of delicately engraved metal leaves, a worn leather scabbard that had seen better days, and a piece of parchment so creased, brittle and faded that she couldn't make out the words.
This small pile of Lancelot's belongings raised more questions then they answered. One thing was certain: she found herself constantly going back to that small figurine. It easily fit in her palm and she liked the feel of the smooth surface of the worn bits beneath her fingers. Reagan stacked the other items back inside the trunk with care.
When she thanked Wynn for her hard work, the woman bobbed a curtsy and claimed it was the least she could do for his lordship. Reagan suppressed the urged to roll her eyes. Wynn promised she'd return tomorrow to help her with whatever else needed to be done, and assured her that a maid would be along to serve the midday meal.
Surveying the room and her newly acquired treasures, Reagan decided to make the best of a bad situation.
Grabbing the embroidery frame, thread, and one of the freshly folded tunics from inside the trunk she set to work. Totally absorbed in her task, Reagan didn't even realize that she was no longer alone until she looked up from stitching a blue winged butterfly and into the inquiring, fathomless dark eyes of her guardian.
Lancelot had crept in so quietly and soundlessly that her had heart lurched into her throat at his sudden appearance. Gone was the well-groomed man from the night before. Now he looked as if he'd just rolled out of whatever bed he'd managed to fall into. His overly long curly locks were rumpled. A new growth of beard deepened the shadow of his rugged jaw and his clothing sat slightly askew.
There was something strangely appealing about his disheveled appearance and Reagan had to fight back the urge to run her hands along his black over tunic, wanting nothing so much as to feel the muscles of his broad chest beneath her palms again. He cleared his throat pointedly, catching her obvious appraisal, and Reagan was helpless to stop a blush from creeping into her cheeks.
Lancelot held his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels as if he were impatient to keep moving.
"Somehow I don't think you're the maid Wynn told me would bring me my meal." Reagan stated archly, laying her embroidery down in her lap. Calmly she watched as he quirked his lips in a half smile at her comment before looking about the now clean room.
"I see you received the provisions I had sent to you. I believe I managed to think of everything, " Lancelot countered, shamelessly eyeing the swell of her breasts beneath the bodice of the dress. Reagan returned his tight-lipped smile, lifting her embroidery for his inspection and effectively covering her chest.
"Yes. Do you like it?" She asked, thrusting the large blue butterfly-sewn dead center onto the back of one of his black tunics-at him.
Reagan waited expectantly as he seemed to choke back a curse at her handiwork before he pushed the embroidery frame away from his face. A deep scowl ruined his good looks for a moment, before his eyes fell on something sitting on the table, erasing the expression almost instantly.
"Where did you get that?" Lancelot asked sharply. Reagan lifted it and let the tiny animal swing on its leather strap in front of her before she answered.
"I found it while I was cleaning," she stated simply, watching the thing swing back and fourth as she gestured.
"You were cleaning inside my trunk?" Lancelot asked, clearly irritated that she'd taken it upon herself to trifle with this possessions. His fingers twitched at his side as if he wanted to grab for it but something held him in check.
"Well, if you hadn't left it open for all and God to see I wouldn't have felt the need to clean inside it." Reagan watched him with a curious eye.
Lancelot looked torn between anger and surprise at her discovery and she snatched the figurine back. Clutching it to her chest she looked up at him with wide eyes, afraid for a moment that he would reclaim it.
"Do you want it? Does it mean a great deal to you?" She asked quietly, watching as his expression softened before returning to that familiar hard look she was growing accustomed to.
"The question is, why do you want it?"
Reagan considered the question for a second. "I don't know really. I just know that for some reason I want to keep it." He looked at her, studied her with those dark eyes and she felt something shift between them in the space of a heartbeat.
"You had a choice of trinkets to pick from within that trunk and yet you choose that," he said more to himself than to her. Lancelot's tone seemed almost pleased, forcing Reagan to let her guard down and release her death-like grip on the tiny beastie.
Holding her hand out and offering it back to him she said, "You can have it back if it means so much to you. I only presumed that you did not care for it, having buried it with in the confines of your dirty clothing."
That small quirk of his lips returned once more at her words and to her complete surprise Lancelot reached out and folded her fingers gently back around it with his own, lingering a second longer than was necessary against hers.
"You keep it. Think of it as a talisman," he said, his voice deep and low and Reagan felt herself swallow hard at the gesture.
"Against what?"
"It will protect you when I cannot. The Gods know it's saved me a time or two." She stared at the figurine sitting in her palm and found the courage to look back up at him.
"Thank you." Reagan found herself returning his smile, fearing her heart was in her eyes. The spell was broken quickly. Once again he cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable and Reagan once again found herself struggling to keep up with his shifting moods.
"Talismans aside, I have come here with a purpose." Lancelot stated as if their previous conversation held no real merit and Reagan felt herself glower at his tone.
How he managed to ruin perfectly good moments between them on a regular basis was beyond her.
"There is something I would like to show you."
"Have you found me a husband already, my lord?" Reagan asked, wondering how he had managed so quickly to complete his duty. Some tiny part of her hoped he had, while another much larger part of her hoped he hadn't.
"Reagan, it's been fifteen hours. Even I can't work miracles in so short a time," he gently chided.
"What is this mysterious thing you'd like to show me?" She asked, getting up from the table and finding her boots where Wynn had placed them next to the hearth.
"You'll find out soon enough." Lancelot replied, watching her every move beneath the shelter of his long lashes.
"Fine." Reagan was getting tired of his obscure statements. She sat on the edge of the bed and hiked up her skirts in a very un-lady like fashion, so she could pull on her boots. Lancelot made a strange throaty sound that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed groan at the action and Reagan realized much too late what had caused it.
She'd always known he liked her legs, she'd just never realized exactly how much.
She looked up at him and tried to feign indignation at his stare, but there was something in his eyes that made her stop. Her heart began to race at the look and she wanted so much at that moment to tease him a bit, use what little power she had over him to make him squirm
"Apparently I didn't think of everything," he offered, his eyes focusing on her feet. The sound of his softly spoken murmur made her heart react in a peculiar way. Feeling herself shiver, she pushed down her skirts, shielding her calves from his burning gaze, and wriggled her toes in the familiar confines of her boots.
"I like these boots, there is nothing wrong with them."
"They're too big for you, they always have been," Lancelot replied, looking as if he were trying to fight a smile and losing, as she stood and clomped her way clumsily toward her discarded belt and scabbard, her skirts hindering her in the process. Suddenly she longed for the freedom of her breeches and wondered when she'd get her old clothes back.
"Big they may be, but at least they belong to me," Reagan added, with a hint of pride in her voice, stopping her movements long enough to ask, "when can I retrieve my belongings from the servant's quarters?"
He didn't answer right away and Reagan looked up from tying the belt across her hips, sliding the tiny figurine across the strap until it dangled comfortably against her thigh. She placed her rusty sword into the scabbard and adjusted it before she managed to look back at him.
A dawning sense of realization hit her and Reagan knew the reason for his uncharacteristic silence.
"What did you do with my things?" It was more of an accusation than a question and Lancelot tried in vain not to make eye contact with her.
She waited, rather patiently in her opinion, for an explanation. It was almost five whole seconds before Reagan felt that familiar burst of temper flare within in her at yet another of his misguided, highhanded actions.
"My lord, I would like my things back." She managed to say, surprised at how calm she sounded.
"You have no need of them now. I can provide you with what ever you could possibly want." Lancelot's voice dripped with arrogance and Reagan wanted to bash him over the head with something hard.
"Where are they now?"
"Gone."
Reagan was unable to stifle a gasp of fury, "Gone where?"
"Just gone," and he offered no more than that.
"You had no right! Those were my things!" She said sharply and she felt herself flush hot in her anger.
"You have new things now. Better things."
"But I want my things!"
"Reagan," he growled, growing impatient with her, dark eyes flashing at her tone.
"What's done is done. I will not apologize for disposing of those foul garments." Lancelot pushed open the door and stiffly motioned for her to step outside. Reagan sucked in a great breath through her nose and forced down her biting retort. Stomping her way outside, she glared daggers at him as he made a great show of locking the door behind him.
Without waiting for him, she started off feeling exceedingly peevish and irritated.
"Where are you going?"
"Outside, anywhere away from you!" she called back, looking over her shoulder, satisfied that he looked just as bedraggled and annoyed as she felt.
"You're going the wrong way," Lancelot stated, managing to catch up with her. He grabbed onto her upper arm and steered her in the opposite direction.
Once he had them both outside he let go of her. Reagan put some much needed space between them and started off at a brisk pace, even more annoyed that after a few moments of walking she was breathing hard from her exertions and he was completely unfazed, keeping pace with her easily.
She tried not to notice the stares, the obvious ogling some of the villagers. It was impossible not to hear the murmurs, or feel the blatant undercurrent of curiosity, as the pair of them strode out in the sunlight, heading for God knew where. Feeling as if a hundred pairs of eyes were on them at once, her stride finally slowed.
"Why do they keep staring at you?" Reagan asked, giving him a sideways glance.
She quickly became aggravated again at how beautiful his hair was when the sunlight fell upon it, giving his curling black locks a burnished hue and making her fingers itch once again to feel the softness of it between them.
"They're not staring at me. They're staring at you." Lancelot did not looked pleased at all when he said this. Instead, his hand tightened reflexively on the hilt of his sword and he glared deliberately at passersby.
"At me?" Reagan squeaked, surprised. "Why?"
"My guess is that there aren't that many beautiful women stomping throughout the fort with swords strapped to their hips, looking as if they'd rather lop my head off as soon as be seen with me--Vanora notwithstanding." Before she could even grasp the fact that he referred to her as beautiful, he yanked her to his side possessively.
"Stay by me and keep the pace." Lancelot said shortly, the death-like grip on his sword making his knuckles turn white. Reagan couldn't find it in herself to argue and allowed him to pull her along briskly, listening to him murmur to himself intently.
"Damn vipers," he said under his breath and she slid a glace in his direction, amazed to find that scowl returning full force. Instead of annoying her as it usually did, this time she found it rather endearing.
Her legs kicked at her skirts as their stride ate up great patches of earth. Reagan managed to catch herself twice, barely avoiding a fall. Suddenly reminded of his high-handedness at disposing of her clothes, without her permission, her anger resurfaced. Any gentle feelings she'd had for him a moment ago were gone and she felt her own features twist in a sour expression.
They quickly passed the stables and Reagan couldn't ignore the wolf-whistles coming from its general direction. She turned around and glared at Ganis and Lucan leaning against their pitchforks grinning like mad at her.
Gilly was next to them, although his expression was not nearly as amused. He looked as if someone had smacked him in the face with a dung-covered shovel, his eyes practically bursting from his round ruddy face, making her snort with laughter at his expression.
"I swear to Gods, if that Gilly so much as breathes on you, I will lay him flat. I don't give a damn who's son he is," Lancelot growled. Reagan wanted to point out that given her recent combat experience, she was fairly confident that she could defend herself against Gilly. Judging the thunderous expression on Lancelot's face though, God help the boy if he ever tried anything.
"Maybe you should have thought twice before you disposed of my other garments so hastily." She managed to give him a guileless smile and he pretended to ignore her toothsome grin.
"Its not the damn dress," he muttered. "You've always looked too comely for your own good."
"Always?" she prompted as he continued to drag her along. "You seemed unaware of my apparent beauty that day we met in the stables."
"Think what you like about that day in the stables. The truth is, I was torn between beating you soundly for your blatant insolence and dragging you into one of the stalls; tearing your clothing off with my teeth and ravishing you within an inch of your life."
Reagan felt her face flame hotly at the image his words conjured. "Believe me at the time I was disgusted with myself for even thinking about the latter. Considering you were supposed to be a boy," he finished with a slight sneer.
"Aren't you glad I wasn't? How my deception must have eased your conscience," her voice was drenched in sarcasm.
"Yes, lucky me," Lancelot replied with a caustic twist of his lips. He pulled her to a stop in front of an ivy-covered wrought iron gate behind a set of massive buildings Reagan was unfamiliar with.
The gate squeaked loudly on its hinges as Lancelot pushed it open. He politely stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. Glancing at him skeptically, Reagan walked forward and was pleasantly surprised at what she saw.
It was a garden of good size, hidden behind a high fence that connected into the back of one of the buildings. Reagan took a few slow steps toward it, unable to stop herself from reaching out and fingering a yellow tipped late-blooming rose; the petals felt like silk against her skin. Looking back at Lancelot she smiled widely. He grinned back as if her expression was contagious.
Reagan took in her surroundings with a keen eye. The garden, while large, was poorly kept. A few late blossoming plants sat at the edges, while weeds ran waist deep and grew rampant throughout the black soil, choking back some of the weaker, less invasive plants.
"I know it's not much, by the look of it. But it's yours if you want it." He said, his voice drifting toward her over the sounds of the birds chirping in the trees near by.
"You're frowning. I thought this would please you," He looked crestfallen at her lack of a response. That familiar air of arrogant confidence that seemed to shroud him was gone, having been replaced by a look so defeated, Reagan thought she was imagining it.
At that moment, looking at that sad little garden with its single late blooming rose, Reagan felt a mix of conflicting emotions besiege her. After a day full of surprises some good, some not so good, Reagan didn't understand Lancelot or his motives. Looking back over the course of the time they'd been together, maybe she'd only fooled herself into believing she knew him.
All she had been certain of was a posturing, preening, overbearing, manipulative creature she continued to provoke on a regular basis. This teasing, protective, possessive, bewildered, and strangely deflated Lancelot with the soft eyes was a complete stranger to her. Perhaps he'd been right along; perhaps she didn't know the real Lancelot at all.
"It's not that I'm not grateful, believe me, my lord, this is the nicest thing anyone has done for me. Truly."
"Then why do you look as if you've just fallen into another pile of horse shit?"
"Because I don't understand why you're doing this."
"You want me to defend my decision to provide you with the one thing you've always wanted? I thought you'd be happy about this," he snapped, jumping to the defensive.
Reagan sighed and felt a light breeze blow through the wisps of hair at her nape. She pinched the bridge of her nose and fought down the urge to snap right back at him.
"I'm not trying to argue with you. It seems that all we do any more is yell at each other. You have to admit last night was a prime example of how we get along."
"What does last night have to do with today?" He asked, crossing his arms across his chest, a formidable and dark look crossing his handsome features.
"Nothing. Everything. Quite frankly I'm completely sick of fighting with you every second of the day," she said, her tone firm. Reagan feared they were indeed fighting again, when he didn't seem to unbend at her words.
He took a deep breath and seemed to hesitate, those soft eyes never once leaving her face. "I recall an instance when we got along perfectly, although thinking back on it there was little need for words at the time." Reagan felt her face color brightly at his gently spoken comment.
Leave it to Lancelot to embarrass her when she was trying to make a point.
"Aside from that interesting and educational encounter, you have to admit we don't get along. I don't think we ever have. You have been kinder to me today than you have in the whole of our acquaintance; forgive me, my lord, if I find your attentions a bit suspect. "
"But you do like the garden?" He asked, completely ignoring her previous observations. Reagan sighed again and smiled reluctantly.
"Yes, my lord, I believe you already know that." And she liked him, too, so much more than she had previously; it was almost hard for her to believe this was the same man who had tortured her on the training grounds so many weeks ago.
"Good." Something shifted behind his eyes and Reagan felt herself sliding into unknown territory. It was a strange but welcome feeling compared to the tension that had been between them previously.
"Peace between us, Reagan," he offered holding out his hand in a friendly gesture. She blinked at his out stretched hand. "I am not a man who is fond of regret. With you there have been many moments that I am not proud of." His uncharacteristic open and honest admission stunned her into silence.
Without thinking, she took his proffered hand and he turned it over. Bowing politely, he placed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand that sent a current sizzling down her spine. He grinned up at her through the thick veil of his lashes as if he were completely aware of his power over her, and for the first time Reagan understood how he had earned his notorious reputation.
"My lord, you can let go of my hand," she said, irritated that her voice had a slight tremble to it. He released her, albeit reluctantly, and turned away. She watched him lean against the fence post with a lazy grace that belied the coiled strength in his body.
There was something between them now that hadn't ever been there before, a thin, tenuous thread of trust that seemed to change the very air around them.
Reagan watched the sun sink behind a cloud and took in her new surroundings, trying in vain to sort out her feelings. She took a couple of turns around her small garden, feeling the figurine Lancelot had given her bounce against her thigh lightly.
Touching that single yellow rose again, Reagan felt hopeful for the first time. She even dared to go so far to suspect she might even be happy. She looked back at Lancelot, who continued to watch her with those dark mysterious eyes. Every once in a while his gaze straying to her thigh and the tiny beastie that rested there, a small smile playing on his beautiful lips.
"Do you think we might try something?" Reagan asked a clear note of hesitation in her voice.
"We might, " he offered pushing his big body away from the fence post.
"Do you think we could try to be friends?" He blinked slowly in reaction to her question as if he was confused by it.
"I've never been friends with a woman before," he said with a smile, somehow Reagan was apt to believe him, but she was willing to try it if he was. Lancelot beckoned her forward.
"Lets take it one day at a time and see where it goes." Reagan slipped her arm through his again and this time they left the garden together.
Turning their backs to the sun, Lancelot and Reagan had unwittingly blinded themselves to the stooped wiry figure that had crouched in the shadows behind the single massive tree. It scurried over the edge of the fence, disappearing in the throng of villagers to carry an urgent message to its master. It had witnessed their exchange with disgust and rancor. One thing was certain: the witch still lived, and it wouldn't be long before she burned for her crimes.
AN: Well... there is chapter 21. Make of it what you will. It appears Reagan's past is finally catching up to her. As for Lancelot, perhaps he's seen the error of his ways? Something tells me this "friendship" thing isn't going to work out? What do you think? ;)
Thank you to everyone who took the time to review/read 21. I appreciate it so much. I aplolgize for my lack of replies lately. Work is sucking away at my soul. Ack. I hope this chapter makes up for everything.
A fair word of warning Chapter 22 will have a strong M rating. Be prepared.
Until then, Happy Reading!