Read Online Stranger in Camelot by Deborah Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Deborah Smith
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studied the hard glint in his eyes then nodded. “I want you to understand that I’m too busy to go on vacation with you. I hate for you to waste even one day of your trip on me.”
“Working on your ranch would be different from anything I do at home. I’d enjoy myself if you’d stop worrying about it.”
“Gee, maybe when I’ve known you for a long time—like maybe a week—I’ll feel foolish for feeling uncomfortable.”
“Time has nothing to do with it,” he said, his voice becoming gruff. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. His expression was troubled as he watched her. “A day, a week, a decade, a hundred decades—what difference does it make? We have all the time we need.”
She wanted to ask, For what? but she was afraid. She might like his answer.
“I’ll help you with the fence,” he repeated. “After we feed your horses, see about my Jeep, and have breakfast. All right?”
“All right.”
“And then, if you’ll tell me where to find another campground, I’ll move out of your barn.” He studied her expression carefully. “If you still want me to leave.”
She struggled in a silent war with herself. Thirty-one years of hard experience said to keep him as far away as possible; the past few hours of intense companionship told her to hang on to him for dear life.
Aggie clasped the sore bump on her forehead. “I’m still scrambled. Let me think about it.”
“That’s all I ask, Agnes.” He looked pleased.
Nothing was going the way it should. She was pleased too.
John traded his rented Jeep for another one, then let Agnes buy him breakfast at a diner overlooking Matanzas Bay and the historic section of St. Augustine, where the massive, gray Castillo de San Marcos still loomed over the bay’s entrance, as it had since the 1600s. He loved the feel of the city, with its Spanish styles and aging Victorian opulence. Having grown up in a city where the past was a living force, he couldn’t scoff at Agnes Hamilton’s affection for her own city.
He liked listening to her chirpy Southern voice as she told him about local history. He liked seeing her eyes light up with pleasure. What was so wrong with that? The scene this morning with that crone, Ida Roberts, had made him feel like snuggling Agnes inside his arms and promising that he’d never let anyone call her names again. Even if she had possession of his inheritance, and even if she had a reputation as notorious as his own—and might have been given it unfairly, he was beginning to believe—Agnes deserved to enjoy herself. He was willing to admit that it thrilled him to make her smile.
“How did you get those scars on your knuckles?” she asked, pointing to the network of fine white lines on his right hand.
“They’re sports-related,” he said vaguely.
“Let me guess. I know! Fencing. I can picture you doing an Errol Flynn routine with one of those long thin swords.”
“I may not have heard of Annette and Frankie, but I do know about Errol Flynn. It wasn’t quite like that.”
“But you got those scars in fencing tournaments. I knew it.” She nodded sagely. “And how’d you get that little oval scar on the front of your neck?”
John stared at her in dismay. Why not tell her the kind of story she wanted to hear? “I splattered hot oil on myself during a business trip to the Orient. I was in an antiques shop examining oil lamps. I collect them.”
Agnes sighed in admiration. Exactly what she’d expected, her smile said. “Tell me more,” she urged.
His stomach twisted with disgust. He’d never collected any kind of art or antiques, unless one considered cheap detective novels and photos of famous London criminals. His scars were from street fights.
She appeared to believe everything he said. Watching her prop her intelligent, rosy-cheeked face on one hand as she listened to him, never looking away, her beautiful eyes trying to trust him, did a nasty thing to his appetite. Guilt replaced it,
“Working on your ranch would be different from anything I do at home. I’d enjoy myself if you’d stop worrying about it.”
“Gee, maybe when I’ve known you for a long time—like maybe a week—I’ll feel foolish for feeling uncomfortable.”
“Time has nothing to do with it,” he said, his voice becoming gruff. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. His expression was troubled as he watched her. “A day, a week, a decade, a hundred decades—what difference does it make? We have all the time we need.”
She wanted to ask, For what? but she was afraid. She might like his answer.
“I’ll help you with the fence,” he repeated. “After we feed your horses, see about my Jeep, and have breakfast. All right?”
“All right.”
“And then, if you’ll tell me where to find another campground, I’ll move out of your barn.” He studied her expression carefully. “If you still want me to leave.”
She struggled in a silent war with herself. Thirty-one years of hard experience said to keep him as far away as possible; the past few hours of intense companionship told her to hang on to him for dear life.
Aggie clasped the sore bump on her forehead. “I’m still scrambled. Let me think about it.”
“That’s all I ask, Agnes.” He looked pleased.
Nothing was going the way it should. She was pleased too.
John traded his rented Jeep for another one, then let Agnes buy him breakfast at a diner overlooking Matanzas Bay and the historic section of St. Augustine, where the massive, gray Castillo de San Marcos still loomed over the bay’s entrance, as it had since the 1600s. He loved the feel of the city, with its Spanish styles and aging Victorian opulence. Having grown up in a city where the past was a living force, he couldn’t scoff at Agnes Hamilton’s affection for her own city.
He liked listening to her chirpy Southern voice as she told him about local history. He liked seeing her eyes light up with pleasure. What was so wrong with that? The scene this morning with that crone, Ida Roberts, had made him feel like snuggling Agnes inside his arms and promising that he’d never let anyone call her names again. Even if she had possession of his inheritance, and even if she had a reputation as notorious as his own—and might have been given it unfairly, he was beginning to believe—Agnes deserved to enjoy herself. He was willing to admit that it thrilled him to make her smile.
“How did you get those scars on your knuckles?” she asked, pointing to the network of fine white lines on his right hand.
“They’re sports-related,” he said vaguely.
“Let me guess. I know! Fencing. I can picture you doing an Errol Flynn routine with one of those long thin swords.”
“I may not have heard of Annette and Frankie, but I do know about Errol Flynn. It wasn’t quite like that.”
“But you got those scars in fencing tournaments. I knew it.” She nodded sagely. “And how’d you get that little oval scar on the front of your neck?”
John stared at her in dismay. Why not tell her the kind of story she wanted to hear? “I splattered hot oil on myself during a business trip to the Orient. I was in an antiques shop examining oil lamps. I collect them.”
Agnes sighed in admiration. Exactly what she’d expected, her smile said. “Tell me more,” she urged.
His stomach twisted with disgust. He’d never collected any kind of art or antiques, unless one considered cheap detective novels and photos of famous London criminals. His scars were from street fights.
She appeared to believe everything he said. Watching her prop her intelligent, rosy-cheeked face on one hand as she listened to him, never looking away, her beautiful eyes trying to trust him, did a nasty thing to his appetite. Guilt replaced it,
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