Ever After (3 page)

But my king bucked against such restrictions, insisting that all in his household be able to read and write. One of the first duties he'd commanded of me was to learn to write my name. Then came reading and writing and taking command of the spoken word. I'd never imagined what comfort and pleasure such skills could bring, what pride I would take in obtaining them.

And when we came to the Here and Now, those opportunities only increased, opening whole new worlds to me. My shelves contained books on every subject imaginable from history to science to literature to philosophy to warfare. For all the king's faults—not the least of which was my forced servitude—I would be forever grateful to him for helping me see that I was a man of skill beyond what was found on the battlefield.

But tonight there was only one book I needed.

I pulled from the shelf a tome bound in soft leather, a treasure I'd secured in the Here and Now nearly one hundred years before. The comforting aroma of aged books wafted to me, bringing a faint smile to my lips as I thumbed through the fragile pages. My grin grew as I began to read the story of how Robin Hood had met Little John, how they'd fought with staves, and how Little John had bested the infamous thief, earning respect and a place as one of the Merry Men.

It was a quaint tale, and at least partially true for once.

I stretched out on the sofa in my study and placed the closed book on my chest, closing my eyes to better envision the scenes as they played out in my head....

 

“No one crosses without paying a toll.”

I peered from under the hood of my cloak at the slight figure before me. Dressed in too-large breeches and tunic, with a cowl shadowing a smooth face, the obstacle in my path was far from intimidating. “Out of my way, boy,” I chuckled. “You'd be wise not to detain me. Wait 'til yer old enough to grow whiskers afore incurring my wrath.”

When I made a step forward, the youth snatched from his back a stave, twisting it with a flourish that was no doubt meant to instill fear. “I've bested men far larger than you, pilgrim.”

I somehow doubted that very much. But more amused than annoyed, I shook my head and strode forward, closing the gap between us and hoisting the lad up by the scruff of his tunic before he'd even seen me move. “Away y'go.”

I received a hard crack across the shins with his stave for my troubles.

With a shrug, I dropped the lad on his bum right there in the center of the bridge. “G'day to you, lad,” I called over my shoulder. “Mayhap you'll yet get yer fortune from a weary traveler this day.”

I was unprepared for the sharp thwack of the lad's stave across my shoulders. My patience now gone, I whirled around, grabbing the stave and twisting hard, flipping the lad in midair. He landed with a startled grunt.

The boy slowly rolled onto one hip, rubbing his bruised posterior. “Bloody hell.”

I extended a hand to help him rise and was surprised to see wide dark eyes with long dark lashes staring up at me from one of the loveliest faces I'd ever seen. It seemed the lad was actually a lass, and a fair one at that. “I'll be—”

Before I could finish the thought, the little shit grabbed my hand, using my surprise against me, somehow managing to flip me head over heels. The air shot out of my lungs as I hit the ground.

“Get up, coward,” the lovely little brigand taunted. “Fight me fairly or risk your honor.”

I slowly rose to my feet, studying my companion with new eyes. “I've no wish to fight you—fairly or otherwise. Shouldn't you be home practicin' yer needlepoint insteada robbin' men on the highway?”

With a growl of outrage, the thief launched herself at me, apparently hell-bent on proving that needlepoint and other feminine pursuits could be damned. Her attack was swift, graceful, and admittedly adept, but I had the advantage of my fairy's prescience, and now that I had the measure of her, easily avoided her strikes. And yet she refused to let up, her attack becoming more violent with my growing amusement.

As much as I admired her tenacity and skill, she was delaying my journey. Needing to be on my way, I waited for her to come charging at me with a mighty roar and calmly stepped out of her way. She had misjudged me and her attempt to slide to a halt failed. Her feet slid on the wet wood and sent her careening off the side of the bridge and into the water below.

“Damnation,” I muttered. The jaded and hardened warrior in me was tempted to leave the troublesome lass to her own devices, but some vestige of nobility made me toss aside my bundle and cloak and leap into the water after her.

A moment later, I had her in my arms and was dragging her onto the riverbank. She sputtered and coughed, choking as she expelled the water that had filled her lungs. I lifted her arms over her head, making it easier for her to breathe before dropping down beside her.

“Daft lass,” I grumbled, pulling my tunic over my head and attempting to wring it out. “We're both fair dreepin' now. What the hell were y'thinkin'?”

She laughed then, a merry sound that unexpectedly warmed the center of me. “I was thinking that there was no way a man could resist a damsel in distress.”

With a twinkle in her eye, she raised my purse of coins before my eyes, having divested me of it at some point during my rescue of her. I snatched it back, unable to smother a grin as I leaned back on my elbows. “You risked yer life for a few pieces o' silver?”

She gave me a saucy grin and a toss of her head. “Of course not! I was never in danger. I swim like a fish.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “ 'Twas all an act then, was it?”

She nodded and snatched off her cowl, letting her dark hair spill out onto her shoulders to frame her heart-shaped face. A few wet tendrils clung to her cheeks, giving her an impish appearance. “You realized I was a woman,” she explained, flouncing back onto the grass beside me. “What was I to do? I saw very quickly I couldn't best you in combat. I had to use other weapons at my disposal.”

I leaned in conspiratorially. “And you fig'red bein' a man and all, I couldn't resist ye?”

She batted long dark lashes at me. “It worked, didn't it?”

I peered down at her, utterly captivated by soft pink lips that begged to be kissed. “Why're you here in these woods, a slip of a girl like you? 'Tis a dangerous place, this.”

“I rob from the rich and give the spoils to the poor, making sure those who have do their part for those who have not—whether willing or no,” she explained. “I've made quite a name for myself.”

I chucked her gently under her defiant little chin. “And what name fair fits ye?”

She bounded to her feet and bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “Those who dare to speak of me, sir, call me Robin Hood.” Her eyes lit up with anticipation as she asked eagerly, “Have you heard of me?”

I had indeed heard of such a person, but it wasn't the legend that so enchanted me at that moment. “That's what they call all the petty thieves. What's yer
true
name?”

Her mouth curved up in one corner and she gave me a playful wink. “Ah, but we don't use our real names here in Sherwood Forest, friend. Too dangerous, that.”

“Then what d'yer men call you?” I tried, sitting up to drape my arms over my knees.

She sent a sidelong glance my way. “What men do you mean, sir?”

I gestured casually toward the wood where I sensed at least a dozen individuals hiding among the trees, some with their bows at the ready to defend their leader should I make one false move.

A slow smile curled her lips and her eyes flashed with amusement. “Clever boy.” She waved to her band of thieves, motioning for them to come out in the open. The ragtag bunch slowly emerged, sizing me up as I got to my feet. I easily towered over even the tallest of them. “And what shall I call
you
, my gallant hero?”

I opened my mouth to tell her, but she held up a finger in warning. “No real names,” I recalled, inclining my head. “Very well, then. I suppose you can call me . . . John.”

She pursed her lips. “John, what? We've got three among us already. John Good, John Swift, John Fletcher . . .” She eyed me up and down. “Perhaps we should call you John Little, eh?”

“Little?” I repeated with a chuckle, lifting an eyebrow, enjoying this brand of sparring far better than the staves. “I guarantee ye, lass, there's naught little about me.”

Her mouth hitched up at one corner in an amused smirk. “I'll be the judge of that.” She then turned and addressed the others. “Well, men, what say you? Shall we add another John to the lot?”

There was a little murmur among them, which apparently was enough to assure her that I was welcome. Her coquettish grin growing, Robin strolled toward me, her hands on her hips. “Well, lads,” she said, lifting that impudent and lovely face to mine, “it looks as though we now have ourselves a Little John.”

When I awoke the next morning, the book still lay upon my chest where it had been when I'd fallen asleep. Grinning from a night filled with dreams of my little love, I rose to return the book to its coveted spot upon my shelf. But before I set it aside, I took one last glance at the verse on the page.

Then I closed the book and pressed a kiss to the cover, my pleasure from the night's remembrances bittersweet. My fingers lingered for just a moment on the spine before I tore myself away to prepare for the day.

I'd been given a duty to perform. And I would do so. And when I discovered whoever this thief was that threatened my king and his family—
my
family—he would be sorry he'd ever crossed my path.

I
stepped through a rift into a shadowy corner of the Met's medieval exhibit, determined to do a little reconnaissance before meeting with the Tale contact the king had mentioned. It wasn't that I didn't trust a fellow Tale to be truthful about what evidence had already been gathered, but, well, I
didn't.
There was only a handful of Tales I trusted completely, and they had
earned
that privilege. Unfortunately, they were also forbidden to know about my current errand on the king's behalf.

I emerged from the shadows and attempted to blend in, having exchanged my typical uniform of suit and tie for more casual attire, but as I took in the other tourists, I began to wonder if my jeans, combat boots, and biker jacket had been the best choice. Instead of coming off as a cultured tourist, I probably looked more like a reject from
Sons of Anarchy.
The sunglasses I wore to hide my eyes from Ordinaries didn't help that image, but that was far better than having to explain how they changed color when I was reading the emotions and desires of others.

I slowly strolled through the exhibit, taking in the various medieval helms, breastplates, and other implements of war, too many memories of my own battles haunting me, the faces of the foes who'd fallen at the end of my sword as vivid today as the day we'd met upon the field. Would that I could forget them.

Suddenly, I felt a heaviness at the base of my neck, a prickling of my skin, jolting me out of my guilt-infused brooding. A Tale was nearby. And that Tale was watching me, studying my every move. I let my gaze drift around the room and peered through the glass display cases, searching for my observer, but saw only Ordinaries. The weight of that gaze was maddening. It tugged at my consciousness, pulling me toward it, but when I drifted in the direction it called me, it would change again, keeping out of sight. Had I not been in a room filled with Ordinaries, I could've shifted to intercept the Tale.

But then, as suddenly as the weight had fallen upon me, it lifted. I made one last casual pass in search of my observer, but when it proved fruitless, I turned my attention back to the reason I'd come.

After several minutes of wandering the gallery with no sign of residual magic, I finally came to a glass case that contained a variety of finely crafted relics ranging from gauntlets and sword hilts to bridles and bits. But there were three pedestals within the case that stood empty, small signs indicating that the items had been removed temporarily.

That was one way to put it....

In addition to the signs, each pedestal contained a faint trace of magical residue that resembled a sprinkle of fairy dust. Visible only to other Tales, the residue was a dead giveaway that one of our kind had been there, had somehow appropriated the items within the case without breaking the glass or triggering any alarms.

“Quite a remarkable collection, isn't it?”

I turned at the sound of the voice to see a woman with fair hair standing beside me, smiling softly as she gazed on the relics inside the case. “It has taken years to acquire the collection,” she continued, her voice smooth and cultured and decidedly of Make Believe. “The Ordinaries had dispersed them quite far afield, selling them off to private collectors. I'm not entirely sure how they came to the Here and Now to begin with, but I was glad to have something of my husband returned to me.”

“You're my contact,” I deduced, wondering if she'd been the Tale studying me as I strolled the gallery. “You were the one who informed the FMA of the theft.”

She turned her head and offered me that quiet smile, her pale blue eyes kind but filled with a distant sorrow. “Yes.” She extended her hand in greeting. “Guinevere Pendragon.”

I glanced down at the offered hand of the fabled Queen of Camelot. It was slim, elegant. I shook her hand briefly; concerned I might break her fingers if I held on for too long. “Gideon Montrose. I'm here on behalf of the fairy king.”

Her delicate brows lifted. “Oh? You're not from the FMA?”

I shook my head. She looked at me as if she expected me to say more. She was disappointed.

“Ah, well,” she said at last. “Perhaps we should chat in my office?”

I motioned for her to lead the way and followed her through the halls until we reached a complex of offices. The one we entered was clearly temporary. The desk was almost completely empty except for a laptop and telephone and there was nothing on the shelves or hanging on the walls. The only hint that anyone worked there was a pale pink leather handbag that perfectly matched the shade of the skirt, jacket, and pumps Guinevere wore.

“I must say, I'm surprised the king has taken an interest in this case,” Guinevere said, her tone surprisingly haughty as she took a seat behind the desk and motioned for me to take the chair across from her. She lifted her chin as if offended by the mere thought of my king's involvement. “I fail to see how Arthur's missing relics would be any of
his
concern.”

I offered her a carefully practiced smile that revealed nothing. “The king's affairs are his own. Perhaps you could tell me when you noticed the items were missing.”

“Five days ago,” she replied, one meticulously manicured fingertip lightly tapping the edge of the desk. “They sent someone out to take a look ... some
Rhyme,
if you can believe it. She was quite the sweet-looking little thing with all of those ringlets, but really! A theft of relics connected to one of
the
most celebrated and admired Tales of all time, and that's the best they could assign to the case?”

I ground my back teeth, biting back the furious retort that immediately rose to my lips. Trish Muffet was worth ten of the woman before me, that was for damned sure. But still needing the information my king required, I was forced to settle with, “I can only assume you mean Trish Muffet. I assure you, she's exceedingly capable and one of the best women I know. Indeed, she and her husband are friends to me.”

Guinevere had the grace to don a slightly embarrassed smile. “My apologies. I meant only that I had expected more of an investigative team than what was sent. But if you say Ms. Muffet is the best, then I will believe you.”

“Perhaps you should tell me what was taken,” I suggested, glad to shift the topic but nonetheless making a mental note to visit with Trish as soon as I returned to Chicago to see what she'd discovered.

Her brows came together in a frown that appeared more put out than troubled. “A goblet, a broken dagger, and a penannular brooch. Odd items to take, really, if you consider the significance of the other items left behind. Those taken were by no means the most valuable—although they would most certainly fetch a handsome price. But, then, really—how can one attach a price tag to items so precious?”

I narrowed my eyes behind my shades. There was something about her words that hinted at sarcasm, but the inflection was slight, vague, as if she perhaps was not even aware of the way her expression belied her words.

“Perhaps the thief did not take them for their monetary value,” I suggested. “Is there anything significant about these items?”

“Of course!” she snapped in a surprising lapse of poise. “They're
all
significant. They're significant to
me.
” Here she paused to take a slow, measured breath, before explaining, “As I'm sure you know, the exhibit is on loan from the British Museum. What you might not know is that I loaned it to the British Museum with the understanding that if the collection was to travel, I was to travel with it in order to handle the relics personally. These items are all I have of Arthur. They are quite precious to me.”

I studied her closely, feeling out her emotions. She was being truthful about what the items meant to her, but I sensed something more to it than just sentimental value. “It's a wonder you'd loan them out in the first place if they are so dear to you.”

Her smile this time was guarded. “I am a single woman of modest means, Mr. Montrose. I do not have the fortune that I had in Camelot, nor the knights to guard what's mine. The museum offered to insure the items against harm, so I believed their employees would be able to care for the relics better than I could. Obviously, I was mistaken.”

Guinevere Pendragon was a puzzle in which the pieces didn't quite fit. From what I could
see
she wanted for nothing. But I didn't need my ability to tell me that. Her designer suit and expensive accessories contradicted assertions of poverty. Why she was pretending to be helpless and penniless was a mystery.

“I've heard rumors that your husband was a friend to my king,” I said. “You could've come to him for protection. I'm certain he would've extended you a kindness for the sake of Arthur's memory.”

“They were, indeed, friends,” she agreed, her eyes taking on a coldness that was at odds with her smile. “But I believe it was your
king
who did Arthur a favor, once upon a time—quite a great one, if I am not mistaken. So, you see, Arthur actually was beholden to
him.
”

She observed me intently as if she was waiting for my reaction to some great secret. I kept my expression impassive, betraying nothing. My knowledge of the king's relationship to Arthur Pendragon was mere hearsay, murmurings among the guards and other staff. I seldom listened to idle gossip, but this time I'd paid attention because it had involved my old friend Merlin. If there was any truth to the rumor, then it was my king who'd sent Merlin to the Pendragon family, to serve Uther and then his son. Beyond that, I was unaware of any favors paid to Arthur directly.

“Even so,” I said, “I'm certain the king would've been happy to assist you. As you say, you are a woman with limited resources.”

She cocked her head to one side, peering at me through lowered lashes, and now plying me with a very different sort of smile. “A
single
woman,” she reminded me. “Let's not forget that part.”

I inclined my head in acknowledgement. “Of course.”

“And what about you, Mr. Montrose?” she asked, her voice going a little breathless. “Has someone ever managed to snare your heart?”

“Yes,” I replied, not bothering to elaborate or explain that such an event had occurred long ago.

Her eyes seemed to spark with irritation. “Well, I wish you happy,” she said, her voice a bit strained in spite of the sweet tone.

I inclined my head, acknowledging her kind words, however false we both knew them to be. “Thank you for meeting with me,” I told her, getting to my feet. “I think I have everything I came for.”

I offered her a slight bow in farewell, but before I could leave, Guinevere rose and came around to the front of the desk. She leaned against the edge, bracing herself with her arms in such a way that accentuated her breasts, squeezing them together beneath the thin material of her blouse and lifting them up to be admired.

“Are you sure about that?” she purred. “It's still early. Why not join me for breakfast?” She arched a brow at me. “Or dinner.”

I didn't even bother sensing her out to get at her ulterior motives for the invitation. There was no mistaking what she wanted. The story the Ordinaries told of Guinevere's marriage to Arthur, her affair with Lancelot, and all of the variations thereof, paled in comparison to the truth as known to the Tales. Guinevere had been one of the most sought after women in Make Believe. And I suppose she
was
beautiful in the classical fairytale sense. She was fair, angelic, her features in perfect harmony, creating a true vision of loveliness. She was what every man
should
desire.

But while I could see how some would be tempted by her and no doubt I would've found her a most willing partner in my bed, I found her beauty decidedly lacking in character. To me, she was neither enchanting nor captivating. There was nothing fascinating about her features, nothing remarkable or unique, and certainly nothing to entice me to follow her lead. Still, I would have to have been a eunuch not to appreciate what she was offering—and even then, it wouldn't have been totally out of the question. But my reaction was a purely physical one, and not one I was inclined to indulge at the moment.

I longed only for a pair of mischievous dark eyes and an impish smile that held a promise of adventure and danger and the sweetest love a man could hope for. And Guinevere possessed none of those. “Perhaps another time.”

From the offended glint that came into her eyes, it was clear Guinevere was not the sort of woman who was used to having her advances ignored, even in the Here and Now. “You may not find my schedule so accommodating again.”

I offered a polite incline of my head. “A risk I must accept. Good day.”

I didn't wait to gauge her reaction before I strode from her office and back through the museum to the gallery of medieval antiquities. Now that I knew their history, I made another pass at the case from which Arthur's items had vanished. I frowned at the empty pedestals, curious why the thief hadn't also taken the more valuable pieces. If he'd made it this far without detection, why stop with a few baubles?

As I puzzled over the crime, I felt that familiar sensation of being watched again. My head snapped up, my eyes searching all the faces in the crowd. No Tales in sight. Not one.

Then I caught sight of a woman in a red dress, black tights, and biker boots heading for the gallery exit, her face hidden by the gray hood of the hoodie she wore beneath her denim jacket. And in that quick glimpse, I saw it—just a hint of a Tale signature, the faint aura that surrounded each of us, identifying us to one another. Hers was pale, faltering, but it was there.

I cursed the number of Ordinaries present in the blasted museum, preventing me from shifting to intercept my observer as I quickened my pace to catch up to her. Looked like I was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way.