CHAPTER EIGHT
Rory awoke to the soft colors of sunset on the wall above the bed. The storm had vanished, leaving the sky scattered with puffy clouds. Stretching her muscles with a groan, she noticed immediately that Bud had vanished. A groggy glance around the room told her she was completely alone.
Yawning, she sat up, the jackhammer in her head reminding her of the emotional upheaval she had suffered earlier and the fact that she had always been prone to jetlag. Stomach churning, she forgot all about Bud’s absence and staggered into the bathroom. Turning on the shower, she went back into the bedroom to gather a few things while the water heated up.
She lost track of time in the shower, washing her hair and shaving her legs and trying not to think of Sir Kieran. She knew that if she allowed herself to linger on him, it would only serve to upset her all over again and, at the moment, she was doing fairly well staying calm. Even with the pounding headache.
Taking time to put her makeup on, she directed her attention away from thoughts of her crusader by focusing on what had become of Bud. She had fallen asleep in his arms and she imagined that someday she might even grow to like it. But the fact remained that as much as she thought, perhaps, that Bud Dietrich was what she needed in a stable relationship, he simply didn’t set her on fire. He was the sweetest guy in the world but beyond that, there wasn’t much of a spark. There never really had been.
She put on three coats of mascara pondering the dilemma of Dr. Dietrich. Odd that she seemed so dependent on a man she wasn’t in love with. It certainly hadn’t been fair to encourage him into her bed, but she was hurt and confused and needed the warmth of a human touch. And without even asking her mother, she knew what the woman would say; stop chasing dreams, Rory. Get your head out of the clouds and focus on what’s real in this life.
Maybe by her willingness to explore her feelings for Bud, she was somehow proving that she was sensible. And how better to prove it than a relationship with a sensible guy? Maybe people wouldn’t think she was so outlandish when they saw who she was married to; ah, yes, I know Bud Dietrich. A nice, level-headed guy. But his wife is a little eccentric; chasing after biblical relics as if they actually exist. Good thing Bud’s around to keep her feet on the ground.
Rory put down the mascara tube before she put on another coat. Flipping her head upside-down, she blow-dried her hair until it was scorching, still thinking on the chaotic situation around her. Too much was happening, her thoughts drifting in several different directions. Her crown, the knight, Bud… she simply didn’t know what she was thinking any more.
By the time Rory finished her hair and pulled her last shoe on, there was a knock at the door. Bud was standing in the doorway, dressed in a nice, if not slightly wrinkled, pair of pants and a linen shirt. She could even smell aftershave. He smiled weakly and held out a fistful of yellow and pink flowers.
“Hi,” he said.
She had to smile at him. He looked really nervous. “Hi,” she said, accepting the flowers. “Wow, Bud, flowers? I’m touched.”
He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. He always had his hands in his pockets, as if he couldn’t think of anything else to do with them. “The landlady had them and… well, I just thought you could use them.”
She was genuinely warmed by the gesture. “Thank you very much, Dr. Dietrich.” She went to the bathroom and put them in the sink, stopping up the drain and running some water to keep them fresh. “So where have you been, other than out buying me flowers?”
He was standing in the middle of the room, watching her as she came out of the bathroom drying her hands. “Unpacking. And looking around a little. I have a view of Hyde Park from my window.”
“You do?” She had a view of buildings and a garden from hers. “I’ve never been to London. I think I’d like to see a little bit before we leave.”
He nodded. “I was talking to the landlady and she was telling me about some tours that run through the city. Maybe if there’s time tomorrow, we can look around.”
The idea of sightseeing perked Rory’s mood. But not entirely. Thoughts of perusing the city only made her think of the London hospital where Sir Kieran was being held and once again she found herself struggling against depression. She knew for a fact that if the tour bus drove past Middlesex Hospital, Bud would have a hell of a time keeping her from jumping out the window.
But she agreed with him anyway, trying to hide the fact that her mood wasn’t much better than it had been when they arrived from Heathrow. “Maybe,” she said softly, busying herself with her tote bag and purse. “So you’re all dressed up for the evening. Where are we going for dinner?”
His gaze lingered on her as she moved things from her tote bag and into a small purse; she was dressed in black from head to toe; slim jeans, a semi-cropped shirt and a black sweater left unbuttoned enough to expose her tight abdomen. On her feet were black flats, making her appear shorter than her five feet four, but her demure height did nothing to detract from her magnificent figure. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman Bud had ever seen and his stomach began twisting giddily as he watched her secure her purse.
“The landlady told me about a restaurant not too far from here,” he said. “They play jazz and have patio dining. I thought you might enjoy it.”
She slung her purse over her shoulder, smiling. “A definite change from dining in a canvas tent on lentils and pork. I hope I don’t die from the shock of decent food.”
He grinned. “If that’s the case, then I’m sure we’ll go together. Christ, Rory, do you realize we haven’t eaten in a restaurant in over a year?”
She laughed as he opened the door, feeling her mood lighten just the slightest. And it felt rather good. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
*
The Patio Wine Bar and Restaurant was a lovely establishment not far from Hyde Park. The weather was surprisingly pleasant as they made the mile and a half walk to the restaurant, skirting the park and talking of small things. It was good to get back into civilization again, the smell of wet pavement and the roar of car engines. Rory took it all in, feeling her spirits perk.
Bud took her arm as they crossed the street and headed for the restaurant. When he subtly tried to take her hand, however, she pretended to dig in her purse for a tissue. Regardless of the fact that she had asked him to sleep next to her, somehow, holding his hand was more of an intimate encouragement and she wasn’t ready to cross that invisible line. She felt like a hypocrite.
The restaurant was lively, a three-piece jazz band playing loudly and Rory sighed with satisfaction as the host seated them. Immediately ordering a Long Island Iced Tea, she settled back with the first alcohol she’d had in fourteen months, drinking nearly half of it before they even ordered dinner. By the time the meal arrived, she was feeling no pain and happily ordered another.
“You’d better take it easy on that stuff,” Bud admonished with a smile. “If you get drunk, I’ll pretend I don’t know you and leave you here.”
She grinned, her cheeks flushed with the liquor. “Oh, lighten up, Bud. Why aren’t you drinking?”
He chuckled as she munched enthusiastically on her poached salmon. “Because alcohol makes me throw up. I used to be able to drink with the best of them, but age has inhibited my ability.”
She slurped the last of her drink just as the waiter came by the table with the next round. “You’re not old,” she scoffed. “You’re only thirty-nine. If you were really old, then that would mean I only have eight more years until I become really old, too.”
He continued to grin, cutting his prime rib as Rory ate her meal with gusto. After the past several hellish days, it was good to see her smile again. When the band began to play another set and she started wriggling in her seat to the music, he simply sat back and enjoyed the view.
“Wouldn’t Dave be jealous of us?” he asked, nursing his cola. “Not only does he have a passion for jazz, but he can drink beer until he drops. He loves places like this.”
A mischievous gleam came to Rory’s eye. “I think I’ll mail him a beer bottle and the program announcing tonight’s band.” She suddenly put up her hand as a thought occurred to her. “Wait! I’ve got a better idea; I’ll mail him a beer bottle, a program, and a doggy bag with a bread crust. How ’bout that?”
Bud laughed. “Put teeth marks in the bread crust and lipstick imprints on the beer bottle and he’ll hate you forever.”
Rory joined in his laughter, picking at the last of her herbed zucchini. “He already hates me. This will just rub it in.”
Bud shook his head, motioning to the waiter for another cola. “Trust me, Rory, he doesn’t hate you. In fact, if it’s at all possible for David Peck to become attached to anyone, I think he’s fairly attached to you.”
She cocked an eyebrow, her mouth full. “You call the relationship we have an attachment? Good Lord, I’d hate to be the person he truly hated.”
Bud’s smile faded somewhat, turning his attention toward the band. “Everyone has different ideas of attachment. Some are just more pronounced than other.”
Attachment. Somehow, the word sounded a lot like Obsession. Rory’s stomach suddenly twisted with thoughts of Sir Kieran once again, the once-mighty warrior destined to be buried in a family crypt without his armor, without his sword, and without the trappings of the life he had lived.
The man who would take the secret of her crown to his grave.
She set her fork down, gathering her drink and wondering if the alcohol would ease her distress. Bud noticed she had grown particularly silent, passing her a glance only to notice tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh… Christ,” he muttered, scooting his chair around to her side of the table. There was a napkin by her plate and he snatched it, drying the tears before they fell to the swell of her breasts. “Not now, Rory. Come on, honey, there’s no need. We’re having a wonderful evening and you’re going to make yourself sick with all of this crying.”
She sobbed softly as he continued to mop up the tears. “I…I can’t help it. I didn’t even get to say good-bye, Bud. They just took him away like he was a piece of meat and that was the end of my beautiful knight. I’m cut off completely.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But you can say good-bye to him at the internment. Please don’t worry so much over this.”
She took the napkin from him, wiping daintily at her eyes so she wouldn’t smear her heavy mascara. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help myself,” she whispered, feeling his arm go around her shoulders comfortingly. “Every time I think about the situation, how lovingly we worked with him and then how his family carted him away like he was a mindless, meaningless object, I just go to pieces.”
He hugged her gently, kissing her forehead as she sobbed into the napkin. “You have to trust that the people his family hired are going to treat him with the same respect we did. Becker says they’re some of the best in the field.”
She suddenly stopped crying, the hazel eyes fixing on his suspiciously. “Becker?” she repeated. “When did you talk to him?”
He maintained an even expression. “While you were sleeping.”
Her eyebrows rose in outrage. “But I wanted to talk to him, too! Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Because I knew you’d fly off the deep end and probably get yourself into a heap of trouble,” he said frankly. “Even if the man is your uncle, he’s still your boss.”
Her expression was dark and she looked away, sniffling and reaching for her drink. “He’s my mother’s uncle,” she clarified, taking a long swallow. “And when I tell her what’s happened, she’ll do the yelling for me.”
Bud cocked an eyebrow. “Fight your own battles, little girl. Don’t pull your mother into this. Whatever problems you and Becker have, that’s between the two of you.”
She sniffled again, wiping her nose with the napkin. “My mother’s been involved in this since the beginning,” she said quietly, avoiding Bud’s gaze. “How do you think I got permission from the board of regents to go hunting for a fabled biblical relic?”
“Your mother’s on the board,” Bud replied softly. “One of the three ordained ministers that voted for your funding, I believe.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, trying to regain her composure. The band was playing a classically jazzy tune and the place was hopping, but Rory hardly noticed. She was still pondering their conversation.
“I’m curious. Did you ever tell Dave my connections?”
“No. He was having a hard enough time dealing with the goal of the project. If he knew you were related to both Becker and Dr. Sylvia Lunde, we probably would have lost him altogether. And I needed him.”
Rory remained silent, watching a band member with three-foot-long cornrows pick at his electric guitar. “I used them, you know,” she murmured. “My mother and Uncle Uriah. I used them to get my dig. I would have done anything to get it because I thoroughly believed in my goal. I was willing to do whatever I had to in order to get funding, but once I had financial support I was positive my work would speak for itself.”
“It did,” he replied, the hand on her shoulder caressing it gently. “Locating the crusader was a remarkable achievement.”
She snorted softly, pulling away from his stroking hand because it threatened to move beyond casual comfort. Leaning forward, she drained her glass. “Let’s face it, Bud. It was a fluke. Now we have nothing to show for it except renewed international relations between Britain and the States.” She sighed heavily. “Everything I worked for is ruined. Gone. Ka-boom. God, I hate my life.”
He watched her a moment, a smirk on his lips. “Well, then, have another drink and indulge your misery. You’re young, beautiful, have a doctorate in Biblical Sciences and have succeeded in locating an intact corpse on your first major dig. Christ, Rory, you really have a lot to be miserable over.”
She scowled at him. “Oh… shut up, Bud. You’re so damn smug.”
He put his hand on her back, laughing softly. “A confidence that comes with age, honey.”
The waiter came around again and Bud ordered dessert for the both of them whether or not Rory wanted any. On her third Long Island Iced Tea, she decided the chocolate mousse looked very good and not only ate hers, but finished Bud’s as well. Sick with sweets and too much alcohol, Rory languished in her chair as Bud had the waiter take away the half-finished drink and ordered her coffee instead.
As the night moved on, the band lapsed into an cool set of songs and the restaurant packed out. Rory’s lids were half-closed as she listened to the music and Bud decided it was a good time to leave; they’d had a nice, relaxing time in spite of everything and he wanted to get her back to the hotel before she collapsed completely.
Half-way home as they strolled along the darkened edges of Hyde Park, Rory suddenly came to a halt.
“I’ve decided something,” she said softly.
He paused, looking at her and noticing she appeared amazingly lucid. “What’s that?”
She took a deep breath, glancing to their surroundings as she formulated her thoughts. “I’ve decided I don’t want to go to Sir Kieran’s interment.”
He was genuinely surprised. “What?”
“I said I don’t want to go to his interment,” she repeated patiently. “You were right when you said the last thing we need is for me to run amuck at his funeral. But I’ve got to tell you, Bud, the way I’m feeling about this, I can’t guarantee that I’ll remain in control. So it’s probably better if I don’t go at all.”
He didn’t try to talk her out of her decision. Frankly, he was glad she had acknowledged her limitations. “If you say so.”
Rory was still gazing at him, her brow furrowed in thought. “I do. No funeral. But I still want to say good-bye to him.”
He crossed his arms against the cool breeze whipping up from the park; spending the past year in a hot, arid country, he wasn’t used to the chill. “And how do you want to do that?”
“By going to the morgue.”
“They probably won’t let you in.”
“They will if I say I’m part of the Hage family entourage.”
“Don’t you think they’ll have a list of the individuals permitted to view the body?”
“Probably.” She stepped closer to him and he was struck by the expression on her face. “But if the admitting clerk is distracted, I can slip by without being noticed.”
She wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He could see it in her eyes. After a moment, he sighed heavily. “Christ, Rory. You want me to cause a diversion while you sneak in?”
“I just want to say good-bye to Sir Kieran. I don’t care how I get in, but I’m going to get in with or without your help.”
He scratched his head and turned away, resuming their walk back to the hotel. Rory remained still, watching him fade down the sidewalk.
“Please, Bud?”
He shook his head and kept walking. Rory was about to follow him when he suddenly came to a halt.
“First you steal the knight’s journal, and now you want to bust into a morgue,” he said with more passion than she had seen from him in a long while. “My uncle isn’t a dean at a major American university, Rory. If I get in trouble, there’s no way out for me.”
She stared at him, a true sadness filling her eyes. “You think I’m taking advantage of you?”
“I think you’re trying to, whether or not you realize it.” His tone was soft again. “You said yourself that you used your mother and your uncle to get what you want. Isn’t it possible that you’re doing the same thing to me? Christ, you know I’d walk through fire if you asked me to!”
She lowered her gaze guiltily. He was right; she knew he would do anything for her and at this moment she was willing to use his devotion to her advantage. All she wanted to do was bid Sir Kieran farewell, privately, away from the eyes of his family and away from those who didn’t understand her devotion to him. Even Bud. He was so blinded by his own feelings that his jealousy was making him resentful.
“Then forget I asked,” she murmured, turning away from him and heading across the street.
He followed, grabbing her roughly by the arm. “Where are you going?”
She jerked away, racing to the other curb to avoid being hit by a car. Bud came up behind her and grabbed her again.
“Answer me, Rory. Where in the hell are you going?”
She broke his grip, trying to stay away from him. “To Middlesex Hospital. If I have to beg, plead, or sleep with the admitting clerk, I’m going to see Sir Kieran.”
Bud was athletic and amazingly strong for his average size. Moving up behind her, he threw both arms around her torso to halt her advance. “You’re not going anywhere tonight,” he growled in her ear. “You’ve had too much to drink and you’re functioning on four hours of sleep. I’ll see about gaining permission to see Sir Kieran tomorrow.”
Undeterred, Rory shoved her elbow into Bud’s gut, releasing his hold. He grunted, holding his ribs as she resumed her eastward march.
“Dammit, Rory!” He went after her. “Listen to me, will you? We’ll go see him tomorrow!”
“I don’t want to go see him tomorrow, I want to see him now!” She continued walking, feeling the familiar sting of tears. “And I don’t want you to come with me!”
“Why not?” he demanded.
She whirled to him, still walking, almost tripping as she marched backward. “Because you just don’t understand. You said yourself that Sir Kieran has turned me into something you don’t recognize. Well, maybe I don’t want you to recognize me. Maybe I don’t want anything to do with you!”
She saw his face go pale in the moonlight. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Her eyes filled with tears; angry, bewildered tears. “I don’t know.” She turned around again, maintaining her brisk pace. “Just… leave me alone. I have to do this.”
“Then I have to, too.”
“No, you don’t,” she practically shouted. “This is my obsession, Bud. It has nothing to do with you and I don’t need your constant presence confusing me even more!”
He stopped. She kept walking. “Rory?” he called after her, his voice strained. “Honey, don’t walk away. Please.”
She came to a halt. After a lengthy, heart-wrenching pause, she turned to Bud with tears on her face.
“I’m sorry, Bud,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I don’t love you. I’m sorry I’ve made a mess out of your life. But this is my obsession and mine alone and I refuse to allow you to involve yourself further. Please go back to the hotel and let me work this out myself.”
He simply stood there, watching her with more grief than he could have possibly imagined. “I’ve made my own choices, Rory. If my life is ruined, it was my decision to make. And I don’t consider loving you a mistake.”
She sobbed openly, struggling to collect herself. After a moment, she focused on him once again.
“I think the only man I love has been dead eight hundred years,” she whispered. “It’s difficult to describe and even harder to explain, but I love him like I could never love you. I’m sorry, Bud. I really am. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
He sighed slowly, struggling against his own emotional outburst. “You don’t love a corpse, Rory. You love his stories of valor, the chivalry he represents. Or maybe you’re infatuated with him because you think he holds the key to your crown. When you get over all of this, you’ll see what I’m offering you. You’ll see that no one can love you like I can.”
A taxi came by and Bud hailed it. Moving to Rory, he grasped her gently by the arm and marched her over to the waiting cab. But not before he forced her to look him in the eye.
“Go to Middlesex Hospital,” he whispered huskily, watching the tears stream down her face. “Say your good-byes to Sir Kieran and get this out of your system. And when it’s all over and done with, come back to the hotel and I’ll be waiting. I’ll wait for you as long as it takes.”
He kissed her hard, knowing that, for a brief moment, she responded to him. But just as he felt her body relaxing in his embrace, he released her and practically shoved her into the cab. Handing the driver a ten pound note, he directed the man to Middlesex Hospital.
Bud watched the taxi as until is disappeared from view. Heading back for the hotel, there were tears in his eyes.
*
Even though visiting hours were over, Middlesex Hospital was a busy place. Rory stumbled from the cab, hardly noticing when it pulled away as she made her way to the main entrance. It was locked but she wrestled with the doors anyway as if somehow they would miraculously open.
Sniffling and wiping at her perpetually running mascara, she took a deep breath and struggled to regain her composure. A clear-head was the only way she was going to be able to do what needed to be done, and she squared her shoulders as she reviewed her options.
Options that included slipping in through the always-open emergency room. The waiting room was packed with football players, or Rugby as she knew it, waiting for medical attention. The nurses were focused on keeping the two teams apart, the injuries apparently the result of a nasty fight, and Rory was able to slip past with little trouble.
Losing herself in the sterile halls, she found her way to the elevators and located a hospital directory. Easily enough, the morgue was in the basement and she slipped into the next available cab.
The basement was dimly lit, smelling strangely of wet earth. Rory stepped from the elevator, her senses peaked as she emerged into the corridor. Glancing to both ends of the long hall, she could hear voices and then a door slam as someone entered an office far down to her right. Deciding to go in the opposite direction of the activity, she went to the left.
She tried not to make any noise as she moved down the corridor, her shoes making soft clicking noises against the muted tile. Walking on tip-toes, she passed a series of doors, noting they were either building maintenance or the lavatories by their sickly white plaques.
Reaching a “T” shaped intersection, she was about to take the path to her left again when something to the right caught her attention. About midway down the softly illuminated hall was a large pair of swinging doors. Even as Rory made haste to identify the doors by the sign affixed to the right panel, she could see from a distance that she had succeeded in locating the morgue.
The doors were unlocked. Rory cautiously pushed into what appeared to be a waiting room, cold and unfeeling with green vinyl chairs. There was a security door in front of her, a glass window in the top portion of the panel allowing her to see into more halls of white. To her left, the receptionist’s window was locked for the night. Peering into the small office, she was met with files and neatly-arranged desk.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the window. She almost expected to see one of the Israeli security guards make an appearance, but she realized bitterly that the Israelis had not accompanied Sir Kieran to protect him personally. It was his possessions they were concerned with, the priceless artifacts that had already been transferred to the University of Sussex. If the guards were anywhere, it was at the university sleeping on the floor beside Sir Kieran’s assets.
Clearly, artifacts were the only thing the Hage family was interested in. Sir Kieran was to be buried in disgrace while his property was displayed by his selfish descendents. Rory realized that if she had been aware of their true motives, she would have gladly turned over the artifacts if only they would have left her the corpse. She didn’t care about the valuables; she never had. All that had ever mattered to her was the knight.
She continued knocking on the window, realizing that there didn’t seem to be a night attendant. Glancing about the waiting area, her gaze came to rest on a small sign located just below the receptionist’s window. It was so bland and unspectacular that she hadn’t noticed it before. And when she read the message, a smile of pure joy came to her lips.
Due to budget cuts, there is no staff in the morgue
between the hours of 6 p.m. and 6 a.m.
Please use the corridor phone and ring 619 for assistance.
It was too good to hope for. With renewed determination, she looked around the room for something to pry open the receptionist’s window when her gaze fell on the plastic chairs against the wall. Setting her purse down, Rory collected a chair and swung it through the window with all her might.
The glass shattered. Collecting her purse, she climbed through the broken glass, cutting her hand but unconcerned with the injury. All that mattered was that she was growing closer to Sir Kieran by the minute. There was a stack of files on the desk and she leafed through them, tossing them aside in her haste and creating a mess. Unable to find any reference to Sir Kieran, she went to the filing cabinet and used a letter opener to force the weak lock.
The “H” section was devoid of a Hage file. She even looked under “K”. Frustrated, she was about to forgo the file altogether when her gaze came to rest on a bank of stackable trays just to the left of the phone. Peering at the file on the very top of the tray, the name she had been searching for abruptly came into focus.
Hage, Kieran I.D. #DL4509384
Snatching the file, Rory left the shattered receptionist’s office in search of her knight. She’s been in a few morgues during her pre-Med days, so she didn’t find them creepy or weird. She had no idea where she might find her corpse and simply stopped at the first sterile room, checking the identification number on the first refrigerated drawer she came to. And the second. And the third.
He wasn’t in the first room. Nor had he been in the second. There was an order to the numbering on the drawers but being unfamiliar with the system, she didn’t want to miss him by trying to guess the sequence with the numbers. A powerful sense of urgency gripped her as she progressed, knowing it was only a matter of time before the violated office was discovered.
The next room Rory entered was larger than the other, a huge stainless steel table in the center of the floor with drains placed around it. Checking the first two rows of drawers with unsuccessful results, she came to the third bank. Stacked three drawers high, the top two drawers didn’t match Sir Kieran’s number. But the third one did.
With a gasp of relief, Rory released the bolts on either side of the drawer, yanking hard to pull it out the entire length. Grasping the sheet that covered the body, she ripped it off. But her joy turned to shock the moment she laid eyes on the corpse, a hand flying to her mouth in horror.
It was the Sir Kieran she remembered, beautiful and massive and looking as if he was sleeping. But his clothing had been removed, leaving him naked and vulnerable. Rory sighed slowly, the hand coming away from her mouth as she viewed the body; they had even taken his clothes, stripping what was left of his already-damaged dignity. But along with her mounting anger came thoughts so unexpected that she had difficulty believing their power.
He was sexy. Now she knew she was going mad for thinking a dead man to be sexy. But even though the man had been dead eight hundred years, he still possessed the most magnificent form Rory had ever seen. As the magic of his allure took hold, Rory couldn’t help but reach out to touch his cold chest. It was broad and wonderful and as her gaze trailed downward, she could see the wound that had claimed his life.
Odd, she thought through her haze of fascination. Even though it was the injury that had presumably killed him, it appeared to be healed. Shiny, new-appearing scar tissue. But the skin surrounding the wound was stained brown, the passage of centuries darkening the once-red blood. Rory peered closer, thinking the appearance strange. If the wound had killed him, as his stained clothes had logically indicated, then the injury should not be covered with the scarred flesh.
Maybe that was why they took his clothes from him; to study the unusual healing that seemed to have taken place after death. But even as she pondered the dilemma of a post-mortem scar which, in any event, was impossible, she was pleased to see that his wound had prevented the Hage Family’s hired guns from conducting their autopsy. Maybe the doctors had been so fascinated with his outward appearance that they postponed the autopsy until they could discover a logical explanation for the occurrence. An explanation Rory herself would like to hear.
It just didn’t make sense, a post-mortem scar on a dead body. But, then again, nothing about Sir Kieran Hage had made sense from the beginning. Not his grave, nor his lack of decomposition, nor the clues to her crown of thorns in his journal. From the very moment she had uncovered her crusader, the man had remained an enigma.
An enigma with a flaccid male member the size of small sapling. Rory tried not to stare at it, a little off-balance as her thoughts turned to the evidence of his masculinity. Embarrassed, she looked around for something to cover him with, thinking that even in death the man should be allowed a some privacy from gawking female eyes. Even if the only form of privacy was a medium-sized towel she found on the counter by the autoclave.
She felt better once Sir Kieran was properly draped. He looked like a football player emerging from the showers after a game. Or a Roman soldier preparing to take his ritual bath. Shivering with the unexpected erotic thoughts, Rory struggled to focus on the purpose behind her visit. Too much alcohol and a lack of sleep was making her sick with thoughts bordering on necrophilia, and she moved away from the towel to look him in the face.
A face that haunted her dreams. Even in death, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen and she touched his cheek gently, finding herself wondering what his voice had sounded like. Deep, masculine. Soft enough to melt a woman with passion or loud enough to bellow orders to a thousand crusaders. Rory could feel the liquor coursing through her veins, making her sleepy and emotional as she tenderly touched the knight.
“I don’t have much time, Sir Kieran, so I’ll make this brief,” she whispered. “When I found you nearly six days ago, I hadn’t been looking for you in particular. I was looking for something else, something I believe we both have an interest in. At first, I was obsessed with finding Christ’s crown of thorns and when I read references in your journal that I thought eluded to it, I didn’t know what to think. It… it was like fate had led me to you somehow. Or God, or Ottis the monk, or whatever you believe in. It was as if I was supposed to find you.”
The room was still and cold, filled with aura of eternal sleep. Rory listened to the echo of her own voice, the tick of the clock on the wall, realizing that what she had told Bud was true. She did love the crusader as she could never love anyone else, and whether or not it was due to a strange obsession was no longer the issue.
He was somehow a part of her, not merely because he was her first official find, but the bond she felt with him was like nothing she had ever experienced. And the fact that he apparently knew the location of her crown strengthened the bond into an unbreakable tie.
Unbreakable by the Hage Family or the University of San Marcos. Somehow, he would always be a part of her and she wondered if he would recognize her on the fields of Paradise, knowing the woman who had spent her entire life loving a man who had lived centuries before she had ever been born. Rory wondered if he would know her, and if he would call her by name.
“I’m sorry for what has become of you,” she murmured, feeling the sting of the ever-present tears. “Had I known your family would do this to you, I would have left you buried in Nahariya. Please don’t hate me for allowing this. I… I thought I was doing the right thing by returning you to your descendents. I thought they would love you as much as I do.”
The clock continued to tick. Rory’s lids grew heavier, the emotional exhaustion and physical drain of the past several days catching up. She was with her knight, finally, and nothing in her life had ever felt so right. Even if the police were to come this moment and take her to jail, still, she had accomplished what she had set out to do. To find her knight and tell him how much she loved him.
Soft, rosy lips found his cheek, kissing him tenderly. “Keep your secret of the crown, Sir Kieran,” she whispered, brushing her lips over his stilled mouth. “I’ll leave you the last of your secrets now that everything else has been taken from you. I wouldn’t dream of taking that, too.”
She lay her head on his chest, tears trickling onto the cold flesh. An alcohol-induced sleep claimed her before she could hear the first few beats of his long-dormant heart.