Goddess of Legend

could possibly say, especially if she was talking to a people-eating critter, but it just sort of came out.

A man appeared from around the side of an enormous oak. He bowed deeply, then straightened. “Relax, my dearest countess, ’tis just I, come to give you formal escort to the castle.”

Isabel’s heart dropped right to her vagina and started throbbing there. Now this was a beautiful man. His hair was dark but cut quite short. His lips whispered sex, his smile screamed it. His eyes were as deep mossy green as the lush forest around them. He had a goatee, which she normally hated, but on him it worked.

He was wearing what appeared to be some sort of flexible chain mail over his chest that fell almost to his knees, he held a hunter’s bow in his left hand and had a quiver strapped across his chest, the arrows apparent behind his really broad shoulders. Underneath the armor he sported a pair of tight black leggings.

The man stepped closer, his gaze dipping to her necklace, then back to her face. “’Tis unseemly to be traveling this forest alone. Where are your men? Where are your traveling trunks?”

Good question, for which she didn’t have a good answer, until she touched her neckpiece. “Oh, yes, well, they are a beat or ten behind me. I was feeling a bit restless at the plodding pace of the wagon and sporting a need for a bit of privacy. But they should be catching up shortly. Shouldn’t they?” she asked the trees. The trees above shivered, and she took that as a yes. After all, Viviane wouldn’t have sent her to this place without more than one gown, would she? And of course it would seem unimaginable for a woman to be traveling alone.

“I’m honored that you feel safety in the forests of Camelot, Countess, but even here there is danger.”

The only danger she felt at the moment was her attraction to this man. To change the subject, fast, she said, “I’m afraid, sir, that I’m at a disadvantage. You appear to know of me, you appear to have had advance warning of my pending arrival, but I know naught of you.” Isabel felt a giggle bubble in her chest and was certain its source was Viviane’s. It suddenly occurred to her that she was speaking and understanding Old English just fine. What a really cool dream this was turning out to be.

“Having a fair idea of your impending arrival time, I’ve had my men watching out for your entourage so that you would have proper escort to Camelot. Imagine my concern when news was brought to me that you appeared to be alone. And that none of your men had ridden ahead to announce you. I worried dearly that some mishap had befallen your detail.”

Imagine mine, too, Isabel thought. And she wondered just how alone she’d been when she’d had to stop to empty her bladder. She felt her cheeks heat up at the idea.

“My sincerest gratitude for your concern and care.”

“My sincerest gratitude for your gracious acceptance to visit us at Camelot.”

“Then, I suppose, we’re all happy campers! Once again, sir, I have yet to know to whom I speak. Are you, perchance”—let us pray—“Sir Lancelot?” Even as she asked, she was fairly certain she couldn’t be that lucky. This man was older by a decade or more than the young knight she’d read about. He was seasoned just right, with laugh lines around his eyes and brackets around his mouth that bespoke of harder, longer living. And there was a wisdom and even hint of weariness in his eyes.

His laughter was again deep and deadly. “All beautiful women want Lancelot. I apologize for not being him.”

“No apology necessary. But who then, are you?”

He bowed again. “My name is Arthur.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

He’s the king, Izzy.

And that means what?

That means get your aces off your horse and curtsy.

Lady, you have kind of left out a lot.

Isabel dismounted, most definitely not gracefully, then took Arthur’s hand and did her best to bend into a curtsy. Since she hadn’t curtsied since a tenth grade play—of all things, Camelot—she was a little rusty.

“King Arthur, my apologies for not recognizing you before now.”

She went to bring his hand to her lips, because she was pretty certain she was supposed to kiss his ring or something, but then she began to wobble, not being all that versed lately in bowing to someone without wanting to kick him in the gonads.

He grabbed her by her waist and pulled her up, his smile so full of enjoyment she wanted to kiss every part of him but his ring.

“Countess, the ride has obviously been a long one and your legs are trying. Betwixt us, that ring kissing thing has always annoyed me.”

His hands didn’t leave her waist, his eyes never stopped smiling into hers. She seriously waited for him to burst into song. “Richard Harris has nothing on you,” she blurted. It was a mistake. She knew it instantly as her necklace kicked her in the chest.

He stepped back, and his eyes clouded. “You are in league with Sir Richard?”

She definitely missed King Arthur’s hands on her waist. “Sir Richard? Of Fremont?”

“I assure you, no, I am not. I was remembering my own Richard, who was once one of my men. Richard of Fremont is nothing more than a swine.”

She had no clue where any of that information came from, but she was so relieved to see the suspicion leave his eyes. “King Arthur,” she said, bending low again, “I would be ever so grateful for your personal escort to Camelot.”

“And so you shall have it, Countess. And alas, look who have finally caught up with you.”

Isabel turned, and sure enough there were two men on bays, riding each side of a wagon with another man driving it, and two identical dapples lugging it, appearing totally disgruntled. As well they should have been, considering the pile of luggage they were . . . well . . . lugging.

Isabel ogled. The three men were almost identical to three of her friends back home in Oklahoma. It took everything she had in her not to run to them and hug them.

But wait. Lady, did you kill my friends? Isabel furiously asked, albeit silently.

And the response was instant, again, silently relayed to her.

The countess, Isabel, must needs her friends. These only be visuals the lake to you lends. You know which traits each of these tends. Because, Isabel, you’ll need them, so deal with it.

Isabel took a moment, shaking her head. That didn’t rhyme.

So sue me.

She turned back to the King. “King Arthur, these are my men. Tom, Dick and Harry. But they’re not the usual Tom, Dick and Harry. They’re my Tom, Dick and Harry.” It never occurred to her how funny that sounded until this very moment. She whirled back to her friends before she burst out laughing. “Please, men, this is King Arthur. Give him the total respect due him.”

Tom and Dick jumped from their bays, and Harry put some kind of stop on the cart thing and hopped down, a smile wide on his face. They all bent to one knee and bowed their heads. “At your service, sir,” they said in unison.

“Please rise,” said Arthur. “There are no formalities here.”

“Seriously,” said Isabel to Tom. “I couldn’t get you to bow when I beat you at quarters in college.”

“M’lady, you’d unfairly plied me with Budwei—er, ale that night.”

That was true. Isabel had gotten him snockered on purpose. After all, the fraternity/sorority championship was on the line. “Excuses,” she said with an airy wave. “’Tis the last refuge of the weak.”

“College? Quarters?”

Isabel received another thump on her chest. At this point she’d have a bruise the size of a baseball. “My apologies, King Arthur. Games we play back in Dumont. I feel that happy friends are productive friends.”

The king gifted her with another winning smile. “We appear to have much in common. I too enjoy sporting with my men.”

Isabel frowned. “To leave the women doing the laundry, cooking, cleaning? What enjoyment do you provide your female help, sir? When do they get a freaking break?” Isabel braced herself for another thump from her necklace, but it never came. Apparently Viviane was on her side on this one. What do you know? A feminist