~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nichole had gasped and grabbed the railing when the stranger- had that farmer called him Sir Logan?- was run over by Orin's horse and she had completely collapsed in her chair at the end of the footbattle. She had been positive that Orin would kill the man just to prove a stubborn point. She had even tried to get the guards and other knights to stop the joust but all refused, and she cried out when she saw the lance pierce his arm. Apparently none of the others had noticed, or had simply forgotten in the chaos that followed. But she *had* seen it happen, and she had also seen the man walk away without a scratch.
His movements had memorized her total being. They were so liquid and clean, his entire body focused and smooth. He had the grace and brutality of a true warrior, and yet the man's face had turned into a snarl, and his voice was little more than a growl. She could see things in the distance very well, and could clearly read his eyes during the fight. They were depthless pits of rage unlike any she had ever seen. But when she looked past the wall of fury, she could see agony churning in their endless tide. What could possibly make a man hurt so very badly when he had so much to offer the world? A true enigma was this stranger, this Logan.
*Logan,* her mind whispered, testing the flavor of it in her thoughts. *Logan...*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ever since Logan was a child, he'd always had a way with animals. He often felt more comfortable around them than he did with people. The creatures of the forest apparently found him just as unthreatening, and didn't run away when he was near. He would spend hours just sitting in the woods, listening to the trees grow. *Domestic* animals were another story. Horses especially seemed to be frightened of him. In the army, he couldn't even go *near* them without causing a stampede. He hoped the case was different with *this* particular horse; he would need a good, strong mount in the journey ahead.
"Easy boy, easy. I ain't gonna hurtcha..." The poor thing was going stir crazy, and Logan couldn't really blame him. *If I'd had a crazy man cut at my hide I'd feel pretty messed up too.* "Whoa, it's alright." He continued to speak gently to the big horse, slowly moving closer and emanating *"friendly"* as much as he could. When he was close enough, he slowly placed a hand on the stallion's nose, aware of the teeth lying in wait for him there. He stroked his muzzle, letting him get a good whiff of his scent. It was at this point that the army horses had spooked and he tensed, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Remarkably, the black charger didn't run, but moved in closer, whinnying at the attention and wanting more. *Well, I'll be damned.*
Logan patted his head one more time and began to remove what was left of the heavy cloth and saddle from his back. He cursed softly at the sight of blood on the destrier's flank but was immensely relieved to see it was only from a tiny scratch. A little soap and water and he would be good as new.
"I wonder what ol' buckethead called ya. Probably something ridiculous like 'Lancelot'. Do I even *need* ta call you anything?" he asked his new friend, who snorted in response. "Okay, you're right, everybody deserves a name. How 'bout Storm? Ya look enough like a thundercloud." Another snort. "Okay, not Storm. I'll admit, it's just as idiotic. Let's see... Yer a big fella, how 'bout Brutus?" He stamped his foot and shook his head in a definite *yes*. Logan laughed and said "All right. Brutus it is then!"
The bizarre tingle on the back of his neck came again, and he turned to see a man walking up to him. Remarkably shorter than Logan himself, he was dressed in an overly ornate tunic, and smelled overwhelmingly of perfume and oil. When he spoke, his voice held the cultured snobbiness that only servants of someone 'better' than the one they were addressing could muster. They may not actually have the money and titles, but you can believe they *act* like they do. The man's words confirmed what Logan had already guessed.
"My dear sir, Lord Jonathan Blackwood requests your presence in his manor home. Leave the horse, I will send for someone to bring it to the house stables."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The manor house rose out of the village like every imperial castle Logan had ever seen. The large brown walls emanated an aura of stability and safety, and the open clearing surrounding it was easy to defend from possible invaders. And yet unlike those massive stone effigies made for kings, this was a *home,* and signs of life could be seen hiding amidst the manicured lawn. Shade trees dotted the courtyard, and under each was a bench or tuft of grass perfect for contemplating on warm summer eves. Open windows jutted from the upper floor letting the late morning air inside. A little ways behind the house a large path led to the stables, where his new horse would apparently be waiting his return. The whole of it was beautiful in its earnest simplicity and lived-in grace. It was a place that Logan could see settling down in himself, if he were given half the chance.
Of course, he wouldn't have employed help that insisted on rambling on etiquette the entire way there. Logan was sorely tempted to shun politeness and show the man the move he'd pulled on that knight, only minus the last minute hesitation.
"When you meet the Bishop, you will address him as 'your holiness' and will bow. You will not be rude or vulgar in the presence of -"
"Look, Reggie, I get it. I'm not gonna pick my nose and stick it on the drapes. I'll save that delicacy for the dining room tablecloth."
"That's *Reginald*, not...*Reggie*." The man said the last word like it was full of boils and highly contagious. "And I do hope that you are merely attempting to be humorous--"
Logan, feeling the onset of a headache from all the chatter, practically jumped from the carriage when it pulled to a stop in front of the doors to the manor, regardless of the tranquil beauty around him. He left the peacock fluttering indignantly behind him and strode forward, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. He knew exactly what to expect from this meeting, and had no taste for it. The soldier in him couldn't stand the pretentious nobility of this land. They always seemed to want something from him, and were unwilling to pay for it. He had no reason to expect this one to be any different.
As he neared the doors, the most wonderful thing invaded his senses. It smelled like warm honey, and the musky scent of a female. Logan looked about himself for the source of the aroma and saw that one of the benches was occupied. The low branches of a tree cut off most of the figure from his view but he could make out the curve of a skirt blowing in the slight breeze. Inhaling deeply, he went in that direction instead, the thought that he should not be capable of *smelling* someone this far away never crossing his mind. He was so enthralled that he didn't even hear the peacock's stuttering protests.
The woman was reading under the tree, her knitting laying forgotten off to the side, a fact that should have bothered him, but somehow didn't. Her flowing gown was tucked around her on the stone bench and her long hair fell in golden waves down her shoulders and back. She turned toward him with a gasp as he moved the branches to see her better. The scent hit him again, and Logan thought that he might swoon.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Her full red mouth formed an 'o' of surprise and deep emerald eyes stared up at him under thick lashes. Her skin was the same pale cream color as the marble bench and her breath flittered out of her mouth, disturbing the few hairs that had fallen over her face.
The two stared at each other for a long moment, neither breaking the silence for fear that the other would scamper away like some mystical forest creature. Finally, she breathed a sigh and spoke, and her voice matched her scent, smooth and luxurious. *"It's you."*
"Pardon?"
She jumped as if broken out of a trance. "Oh! I mean...um..."
Her answer was cut short but the huff puffing of the manservant as he broke through the branches. "I am *dreadfully* sorry, my Lady, but this *ruffian* just barged away from me before I could warn you! He didn't hurt you did he? I shall call the guards immediat-"
"No, Reginald, it's all right. He has done no harm." She looked back to him, her amazing eyes mesmerizing his very soul. "I am the Lady Nichole Blackwood. This is my brother's home. You are welcome here, Sir...?"
He broke out of the trance. "It's Logan. Not 'Sir' anything. I don't have a title."
"*Indeed*," mumbled Reginald. "His Lordship is waiting. Good day my Lady."
"Good day Reginald." Logan was being turned physically away by the smaller manservant when he heard her say softly, "And good day to you, Logan. I hope to see you again."
As he pushed through the heavy doors Logan could still smell her lingering scent. *Nichole,* he thought, letting the word blow through his mind like a warm breeze, soothing his troubled thoughts. *Nichole...*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nichole had gasped and grabbed the railing when the stranger- had that farmer called him Sir Logan?- was run over by Orin's horse and she had completely collapsed in her chair at the end of the footbattle. She had been positive that Orin would kill the man just to prove a stubborn point. She had even tried to get the guards and other knights to stop the joust but all refused, and she cried out when she saw the lance pierce his arm. Apparently none of the others had noticed, or had simply forgotten in the chaos that followed. But she *had* seen it happen, and she had also seen the man walk away without a scratch.
His movements had memorized her total being. They were so liquid and clean, his entire body focused and smooth. He had the grace and brutality of a true warrior, and yet the man's face had turned into a snarl, and his voice was little more than a growl. She could see things in the distance very well, and could clearly read his eyes during the fight. They were depthless pits of rage unlike any she had ever seen. But when she looked past the wall of fury, she could see agony churning in their endless tide. What could possibly make a man hurt so very badly when he had so much to offer the world? A true enigma was this stranger, this Logan.
*Logan,* her mind whispered, testing the flavor of it in her thoughts. *Logan...*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ever since Logan was a child, he'd always had a way with animals. He often felt more comfortable around them than he did with people. The creatures of the forest apparently found him just as unthreatening, and didn't run away when he was near. He would spend hours just sitting in the woods, listening to the trees grow. *Domestic* animals were another story. Horses especially seemed to be frightened of him. In the army, he couldn't even go *near* them without causing a stampede. He hoped the case was different with *this* particular horse; he would need a good, strong mount in the journey ahead.
"Easy boy, easy. I ain't gonna hurtcha..." The poor thing was going stir crazy, and Logan couldn't really blame him. *If I'd had a crazy man cut at my hide I'd feel pretty messed up too.* "Whoa, it's alright." He continued to speak gently to the big horse, slowly moving closer and emanating *"friendly"* as much as he could. When he was close enough, he slowly placed a hand on the stallion's nose, aware of the teeth lying in wait for him there. He stroked his muzzle, letting him get a good whiff of his scent. It was at this point that the army horses had spooked and he tensed, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Remarkably, the black charger didn't run, but moved in closer, whinnying at the attention and wanting more. *Well, I'll be damned.*
Logan patted his head one more time and began to remove what was left of the heavy cloth and saddle from his back. He cursed softly at the sight of blood on the destrier's flank but was immensely relieved to see it was only from a tiny scratch. A little soap and water and he would be good as new.
"I wonder what ol' buckethead called ya. Probably something ridiculous like 'Lancelot'. Do I even *need* ta call you anything?" he asked his new friend, who snorted in response. "Okay, you're right, everybody deserves a name. How 'bout Storm? Ya look enough like a thundercloud." Another snort. "Okay, not Storm. I'll admit, it's just as idiotic. Let's see... Yer a big fella, how 'bout Brutus?" He stamped his foot and shook his head in a definite *yes*. Logan laughed and said "All right. Brutus it is then!"
The bizarre tingle on the back of his neck came again, and he turned to see a man walking up to him. Remarkably shorter than Logan himself, he was dressed in an overly ornate tunic, and smelled overwhelmingly of perfume and oil. When he spoke, his voice held the cultured snobbiness that only servants of someone 'better' than the one they were addressing could muster. They may not actually have the money and titles, but you can believe they *act* like they do. The man's words confirmed what Logan had already guessed.
"My dear sir, Lord Jonathan Blackwood requests your presence in his manor home. Leave the horse, I will send for someone to bring it to the house stables."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The manor house rose out of the village like every imperial castle Logan had ever seen. The large brown walls emanated an aura of stability and safety, and the open clearing surrounding it was easy to defend from possible invaders. And yet unlike those massive stone effigies made for kings, this was a *home,* and signs of life could be seen hiding amidst the manicured lawn. Shade trees dotted the courtyard, and under each was a bench or tuft of grass perfect for contemplating on warm summer eves. Open windows jutted from the upper floor letting the late morning air inside. A little ways behind the house a large path led to the stables, where his new horse would apparently be waiting his return. The whole of it was beautiful in its earnest simplicity and lived-in grace. It was a place that Logan could see settling down in himself, if he were given half the chance.
Of course, he wouldn't have employed help that insisted on rambling on etiquette the entire way there. Logan was sorely tempted to shun politeness and show the man the move he'd pulled on that knight, only minus the last minute hesitation.
"When you meet the Bishop, you will address him as 'your holiness' and will bow. You will not be rude or vulgar in the presence of -"
"Look, Reggie, I get it. I'm not gonna pick my nose and stick it on the drapes. I'll save that delicacy for the dining room tablecloth."
"That's *Reginald*, not...*Reggie*." The man said the last word like it was full of boils and highly contagious. "And I do hope that you are merely attempting to be humorous--"
Logan, feeling the onset of a headache from all the chatter, practically jumped from the carriage when it pulled to a stop in front of the doors to the manor, regardless of the tranquil beauty around him. He left the peacock fluttering indignantly behind him and strode forward, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. He knew exactly what to expect from this meeting, and had no taste for it. The soldier in him couldn't stand the pretentious nobility of this land. They always seemed to want something from him, and were unwilling to pay for it. He had no reason to expect this one to be any different.
As he neared the doors, the most wonderful thing invaded his senses. It smelled like warm honey, and the musky scent of a female. Logan looked about himself for the source of the aroma and saw that one of the benches was occupied. The low branches of a tree cut off most of the figure from his view but he could make out the curve of a skirt blowing in the slight breeze. Inhaling deeply, he went in that direction instead, the thought that he should not be capable of *smelling* someone this far away never crossing his mind. He was so enthralled that he didn't even hear the peacock's stuttering protests.
The woman was reading under the tree, her knitting laying forgotten off to the side, a fact that should have bothered him, but somehow didn't. Her flowing gown was tucked around her on the stone bench and her long hair fell in golden waves down her shoulders and back. She turned toward him with a gasp as he moved the branches to see her better. The scent hit him again, and Logan thought that he might swoon.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Her full red mouth formed an 'o' of surprise and deep emerald eyes stared up at him under thick lashes. Her skin was the same pale cream color as the marble bench and her breath flittered out of her mouth, disturbing the few hairs that had fallen over her face.
The two stared at each other for a long moment, neither breaking the silence for fear that the other would scamper away like some mystical forest creature. Finally, she breathed a sigh and spoke, and her voice matched her scent, smooth and luxurious. *"It's you."*
"Pardon?"
She jumped as if broken out of a trance. "Oh! I mean...um..."
Her answer was cut short but the huff puffing of the manservant as he broke through the branches. "I am *dreadfully* sorry, my Lady, but this *ruffian* just barged away from me before I could warn you! He didn't hurt you did he? I shall call the guards immediat-"
"No, Reginald, it's all right. He has done no harm." She looked back to him, her amazing eyes mesmerizing his very soul. "I am the Lady Nichole Blackwood. This is my brother's home. You are welcome here, Sir...?"
He broke out of the trance. "It's Logan. Not 'Sir' anything. I don't have a title."
"*Indeed*," mumbled Reginald. "His Lordship is waiting. Good day my Lady."
"Good day Reginald." Logan was being turned physically away by the smaller manservant when he heard her say softly, "And good day to you, Logan. I hope to see you again."
As he pushed through the heavy doors Logan could still smell her lingering scent. *Nichole,* he thought, letting the word blow through his mind like a warm breeze, soothing his troubled thoughts. *Nichole...*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~