Her Knight at the Museum

Chapter Three

Three

Emily pulled the comforter around her, turned to her side, and drifted off to sleep…

Tall shelves filled with leather-bound books, in a grove of even taller trees, surrounded her. She was searching for one book in particular…She’d loved it, once. What was the title again?

A man emerged from between the stacks of books. His wavy blond hair flowed past his broad shoulders, and his mustache and beard were closely cropped. The bright green velvet doublet, with its full sleeves and pleated hem, barely covered his crotch, and the black hose accentuated suave narrow hips and powerful thighs. It made Emily think of a football player’s uniform, although the only padding was muscle.

His black boots, scuffed and worn, made almost no sound as he approached—warily, as though she might turn into a bird and fly away.

“It’s you,” she breathed.

He made a deep bow. When he raised his head again, holding her in a steady gaze, he finally spoke.

“Lady Emily.” His voice was low and resonant.

“Who are you?”

A rueful smile crossed his face. “Forgive me, my lady. It has been so long since I’ve spoken to such a kind and lovely demoiselle.” Her face warmed in a blush as she took a step closer. “I am Sir Griffin de Beauford, who was oft called Sir Griffin the Proud, son of William de Beauford, at your service.”

“Emily Porter.” She tilted her head. “But you’re a sculpture.”

He nodded slightly, as if expecting this. “Once I was the living man you see. For hundreds of years have I been imprisoned in the form of stone.”

What? “That’s not possible.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Would that it were not. I can feel but not move, and hear but not speak, except in dreams.”

Oh. “I’m dreaming now,” she realized aloud. That was why she was standing in a library surrounded by giant trees, wearing a flowing white gown.

“Aye, my lady. ’Tis the only way I may speak to others, for none can hear my thoughts…although, meseems that you came very close.”

“I thought I was losing my mind,” she murmured. “You told me to touch you.”

“More truth to say I begged.”

Her chest ached at the longing in his voice. She took his hand.

He startled as though she’d delivered a static shock. Then he bent down and pressed his lips to the tops of her fingers.

Her heart skipped and she gave a nervous giggle. “Um. Okay.”

He released her hand, studying her face. “I thought of doing that many times this day, but I hope I have not offended you.”

“I—no, why?”

He shrugged. “A lady may laugh for courtesy’s sake and yet be dismayed.”

Huh. Pretty insightful for a medieval guy. “You didn’t offend me. Although, we do barely know each other.”

“Aye, but you have stared at me much today.”

She laughed. “That’s true.”

The sculpture hadn’t been an exact likeness. Although more realistic than most from its era, it had still reflected that prevailing style. She’d marveled at its skill, but it hadn’t done him justice. His broad face was so expressive, so alive. Nothing had prepared her for the allure of his full lips or the warmth in his blue eyes.

“I didn’t think you would be so blond,” she said.

“Are you displeased, my lady?”

“Hardly. You’re—very handsome.”

“Aye, or so I was,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I’ve so long stood unmoving and unloved, I judge myself more monster than man.”

This was just a dream. So why should anything he said wrench at her heart? “Come on.” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “You seem perfect.”

“I am far from that.” The timbre of his voice dipped lower. “But such fair words are even more welcome from one whose beauty slays me utterly.”

“ Wow. Um. I guess knights really did have courtly manners. Some of them, anyway.” She shook her head and took a few steps away from him. “Although, obviously, you’re not real.”

“So I have often been told.” His smile looked slightly forced. “Yet there is no reason why we may not have pleasant discourse together, as I’ve done with many in their dreams.”

“You go into other people’s dreams, too?”

“Aye. I spoke thus with Richard Burke the Third for most of his life, and his father and his grandfather, too.”

“Richard Burke, the estate owner?”

“The very same, demoiselle.” He cleared his throat, and his eyes looked glossy. “He was a worthy gentleman and a dear friend.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” He’d lost his best friend…maybe his only friend? Without even thinking about it, she drew nearer to him again. “My God, you must be so lonely.”

“Aye, lady, more than I can say. But your fair company is a blessing beyond hope.”

She melted a little inside. “I like your company, too. You’re like my childhood vision of a knight in shining armor. Or a Prince Charming, I guess, given this whole tunic thing. And it totally makes sense that you would show up in my subconscious, after I was setting up the dating app, and talking about King Arthur—” Aha! She snapped her fingers. “That’s the book I was looking for!” The one she’d checked out four times from the public library as a nerdy fourth grader.

His face lit up. “I, too, loved these tales of bravery and honor. My father had three books about Lancelot, the Holy Grail, and the tragedy of Arthur, written out and illuminated by an artisan in Rouen.” Emily didn’t expect this type of detail in a dream, but given all her studies, her subconscious had plenty to draw on.

“Those must’ve been beautiful. Can you read French?”

“Aye, my lady, French and Latin, for I am a gentleman.”

“Of course,” Emily said with a hint of irony. “You were from around 1425, right?”

Griffin hugged his elbows, looking away. “?’Twas the year of our Lord 1428 that I was damned into this earthly hell.”

She shuddered. “I can’t imagine anything worse!”

“No more can I, and I have had ample time to consider the matter.”

Even if this was made up, her own brain’s version of Netflix, his story broke her heart.

She asked gently, “How did it happen?”

He grimaced. “I will not tell the whole lamentable tale, which would prove a poor entertainment and do me no honor besides. An evil and powerful conjuror cursed me to this state.” He took in a ragged breath and let it out. “He was a man I once loved like a brother.”

“Oh no. Why would a friend do that to you?”

“I defeated him in a grand tournament in London.”

“Oh.” Emily frowned. “Was he badly injured?”

“Nay, but the injury to his pride proved mortal.” He sighed. “?’Twas the biggest crowd I had ever seen in my life, with knights from distant realms: Córdoba and Granada, Moldavia, and even Saracens from Damascus.”

“Sara…? Oh, right. We call Saracens Muslims now.” She took a seat on the fallen log not far from the fire.

“Muslims,” Griffin repeated under his breath, as if to commit it to memory. In a fluid motion, he sat down next to her.

“I did not intend to fight that day,” he said. “I had just returned again from France, another bloody battle won, and I was sick to death of war.”

Emily screwed up her face. “I’ll bet.”

“The games were exceedingly gladsome to watch, for none were grievously hurt, and Mordrain won one joust and then another. I thought to myself that mayhap it was pleasant to him, to be the champion himself instead of the friend of one.”

“You were usually the champion?”

He looked away, staring at the fire. “Already I regret telling this tale. I fear you will not think well of me by its end.”

“Whatever it was, you were punished too much for it,” she said softly. “Even if it’s bad, I’ll try to understand, okay?”

He gave a tight nod. “Late in the day, my father arrived and learned I was not in the lists. He became enraged. Why should any respect me, he asked, if I didn’t show them my power? He said folk would talk forever of my cowardice.”

“Would they?”

“Nay,” he said shortly. “But it sounded like truth to me at the time, for he had always told me a man was loved for his riches and his might. I came against Mordrain when he was much winded from a long day of battle. It was not the first time I had defeated him in a tournament. And this time it was in front of…” He swallowed. “In front of a lady he loved.”

“And he turned you into stone right there? Is that why you were wearing your armor?” If that happened in front of a huge crowd, wouldn’t there be a written record of it somewhere?

No, there wouldn’t, because this was a dream, she reminded herself.

“Nay. A seven-night later, Mordrain challenged me to meet him in a clearing and do battle. I believed he would gather many witnesses—though truth be told, he had few friends.”

Absently, Griffin picked up a twig, worrying it with his thumb. “I had no plan but to make amends, for my conscience was pricked with remorse. He alone was there, armored for battle…I dismounted and made a show of casting aside my sword, thinking to make peace. I took off my helmet…and he cursed me to this torment worse than hell.”

Emily inched closer. “But I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Did he…have a magic wand? Like in Harry Potter ?”

Griffin said tightly, “He had a staff. One I had not seen before.”

“So more like The Lord of the Rings .”

“I do not know that lord.”

As grim as the story was, Emily’s lips twitched at that. “Did you know he was a sorcerer?”

“He studied with one, who most believed to be a mad hermit. But I sorely underestimated Mordrain’s power.”

“How did he do it?”

“He raised his staff and spoke words in some ancient tongue.” A bleak, wintry look came into his eyes. “I could not move then, though I was still flesh.”

Emily’s shoulders hunched up toward her ears. She’d had nightmares like that.

Griffin tossed the twig in his hand into the fire. “Then he told me he had murdered the sorcerer who had taught him, to steal his greatest treasure: the staff of the great Merlin, stolen from his grave on Bardsey Isle.”

“Whoa,” Emily breathed. “I thought Merlin was just a myth.” What was she saying? This was all a myth.

“I wish it were so,” he said heavily. “He said I had been too fond of ladies’ kisses, and that now even if a lady kissed me, I would be stone. He placed four onyx stones carved with strange symbols around my feet, north and south, and east and west. Then, turning his face away, he uttered more words in a foreign tongue. I felt myself turn.”

His voice sounded hollow. Coldness slithered up Emily’s spine.

“Behind me, I heard my stallion gallop away.” A frown etched his brow. “I hope he was found by someone who cared for him well.”

Emily touched her hand to her heart. What a sweet man he was to still be worried about his horse.

“I bet he was,” she said softly. “What happened to him? Mordrain?”

Griffin shook his head. “?’Twas too much magic, mayhap, for a mortal man…or else the staff itself despaired of such a master. It caught fire and burned Mordrain with it down to ash, all in a moment. Nothing was left but blackened armor…and so also burned my hope to undo the curse.”

At least Mordrain hadn’t been able to turn anyone else to stone. But that probably wasn’t much comfort to Griffin, who had suffered so much.

Impulsively, Emily wrapped her arms around him.

He stiffened as though in shock, then returned the embrace, pulling her close against him and burying his head in her neck. His body against hers was still big and hard, but supple, undeniably human. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

When she pulled back, he released her immediately. She took his hand again.

“Did anyone find you?” she asked tentatively.

“Aye, peasants came across me on the morrow. They took Mordrain’s armor and my sword, and no doubt sold it.”

“They didn’t move you, though?”

“Nay, the stone was not easy to move. But later a yeoman and his draft horses and his four strapping sons rolled me over logs bit by bit, over the course of a summer, to his cottage’s garden, where I stood guard over the carrots and cabbages.”

“I’ve never even believed in spells, but there must be a way to fix it.” A horrible thought crossed her mind. “If it was undone, would you be alive? Or would you…turn into a skeleton or something since it’s been hundreds of years?”

“Even death is a relief for which I dare not hope.”

She squeezed his hand. “That’s…that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” Her throat tightened.

His blue eyes filled with concern. “Grant pardon, sweet lady, for burdening you with my sorrow. We should speak of more pleasant things.”

He stood up and looked around them. “I’ve seen many wondrous things in dreams, both terrible and fair, but I’ve never seen a library spring up thus in a greenwood. ’Tis a beautiful sight.”

“Not as beautiful as you are,” she said lightly, getting to her feet. Was she flirting? Well, why not? “It’s really too bad you’re not real.”

He drew ever so slightly nearer to her. “By the Holy Rood, I swear I am.”

By the Holy Rood? Had she ever heard that expression before?

She must’ve read it somewhere. She was taking this too seriously.

“Why were you called Sir Griffin the Proud?” she asked him. “I mean, as opposed to Sir Griffin the Handsome, or Sir Griffin the Panty Dropper?”

A look of confusion came into his eyes at the last name, but then he shook his head slightly, dismissing it.

“I was first called Griffin the Proud by an enemy, and then by everyone, even myself.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “In truth, I had great cause for pride. I was rich, the son of an earl, the heir to a castle and another vast estate, and the most powerful fighter in the land.”

“Well, they certainly couldn’t call you Griffin the Humble,” she teased.

He shrugged. “I have always spoken my thoughts plainly, for good or ill.”

“It’s for good,” she reassured him. “When I was married to Tom, my ex-husband, I’d practically have to beg him to tell me what was on his mind.” She gave a huff of disgust. “Though I guess what was on his mind for a while was another woman.”

Griffin frowned. “He dallied with a wanton wench.”

Despite the painful subject, she gave a short laugh. “Oh, it’s way worse than that. They’re in love.”

He turned her hand in his, bent his head, and pressed his lips to her palm.

The sensation of her hand in his, the brush of his lips, and the tickle of his breath gave her a very real-feeling shiver of delight. It was more romantic—more sensual —than she would’ve expected.

He raised his head and met her eyes, his gaze filled with naked sincerity. “You are well rid of your husband, for he was not only a contemptible villain, but a Jack-fool besides.”

She ducked her head. “You literally just met me.”

“You were kind to your friend the cunning woman, and you’re kind to me. Mayhap ’tis your sympathetic nature that allowed you to hear my thoughts when no one else ever could.” His gaze traveled over her. “Beauty sometimes masks a foul soul, but yours reflects the loveliness within.”

“You know,” she breathed, “you’re kind of making me swoon here.”

“Am I?” His voice was a low rumble. He drew closer, his face inches from hers. “I am exceedingly glad to hear it, for I am drawn to you like a pilgrim to a holy well, with a heart full of yearning and lips desiring to drink.”

Gently, he pulled her up against him, focusing on her mouth. He felt so good . So warm and vital. Her dream slid from day to night, and a bonfire blazed up close by, though fortunately out of the range of the cases of books. A log crackled and flung up two sparks that rose and took their places in the night sky overhead, glowing orange in the midst of all the pale and brilliant stars.

“I’m shaking,” she said.

He caressed her cheek. “But not, I think, from fear.”

“No,” she whispered. Definitely not.

“Can you feel my heart beating?” he murmured. She nodded. “Even in life, it scarce beat as hard as it does now, for pure joy.”

He cupped her face in his hands and captured her mouth in a kiss.

Oh God. She felt a faint trembling in his body, too, and had a sense that he was holding himself in check, trying to be gentle, but his mouth on hers was firm and assured. Without breaking away, he dragged the pad of his thumb along the underside of her lip. She whimpered right into his mouth.

He delved into her. To her shock, and pure delight, he tasted sweet and spicy, like…cinnamon? His passion sent a rush of liquid heat through her, overriding conscious thought. He buried his fingers in her hair and then tightened them, sending starbursts of sensation across her skull and somehow making her lips feel even more sensitive. His kiss deepened. He demanded more, and she accepted it, invited it, wide open and willing.

Maybe she should offer her whole body up to him in the same way, letting him take anything and everything he wanted. She stood on her toes to better meet his mouth—dangerous, when her legs felt so weak.

His large, strong hands slid down to cup and squeeze her ass. Hmmm, that wasn’t so genteel and gallant…and she loved it, arching her back, pushing herself against his palms. Her tight, aching breasts thrust against his solid chest.

But when he reached down and grabbed a big handful of her gown and pulled it up, baring her hip, caution returned to her in a rush. There was definitely nothing underneath the gown. She put a hand on his before he could hike it up any further, and he froze.

“Hey,” she said, “maybe we shouldn’t…I don’t know.”

He released the fabric in his hand, searching her gaze. “I cry you mercy if I have offended your modesty.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “You’re not, um, offending. I guess if I wanted to, I could just open my eyes and wake up.”

Sorrow settled on his features. Oh no. She hadn’t meant to make him even sadder.

“Demoiselle, do you want to wake up?”

“No,” she said softly. “I mean, I’m…” No, she shouldn’t tell him about the wetness between her legs. In medieval England, ladies at court probably hadn’t discussed those things. She definitely wouldn’t have brought it up in real life, either, with a man she’d just met…not that she’d ever met anyone like Griffin.

The corner of his mouth, still temptingly close to hers, quirked up in a knowing smile. “?’Tis naught but a dream, my lady. No harm shall be done if you take your pleasure as you will.”

“But will you go into other people’s dreams?” She shook her head. Stupid question. He was a figment of her imagination. A big, gorgeous, really charming figment.

“I can only go into the dreams of those I have seen while they were awake.”

“Why?”

He laughed. “My sweet bird, I know not how I do even this. Though had I not learned, I would be myself no more, but some wretched demon writhing in his hopelessness and rage.” Her heart twisted at the thought. He’d survived for centuries on nothing but scraps of human companionship, the kind she took for granted.

He took her hand and looked deep into her eyes. “Only you have seen the man within the stone. In the sight of God, I shall visit no other lady as long as I may visit you.”

If he’d been real, she wouldn’t have believed him. Tom had promised in his wedding vows to be faithful, too.

“What about Rose?” she asked.

“I would gladly befriend her, but I need only your company.”

“You can visit her if you want,” Emily grumbled. He needed more friends. An unpleasant thought came to her mind. “But I wish you wouldn’t visit Laurie.”

He laughed again. She loved the sound of his laugh: genuine, free, and good-natured. “The one who is so sour, she’d turn cream to buttermilk?”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “That’s a pretty good burn. Anyway, she’s married and has two kids.”

He took her into his arms again, kissing the curve of her ear and then the lobe in a way that made her squirm. “We must speak of her ill-tempered ways no more, or my king will no longer be ready to enter the court.”

King? … Oh my God. That was one way to refer to a dick.

Would he be wearing a codpiece? Emily dared to reach under his velvet doublet. Not exactly, but his hose had some kind of pouch there. His king felt big and hard, more than ready to enter the court.

As she palmed it, he made a low sound in the back of his throat that sent more heat pooling between her thighs. She stroked his length, and it twitched hard under her palm.

“Christ Jesus,” he rasped, his eyes half-closed. She felt a touch of awe at the sight of his rapt expression. It was only because he’d needed this so badly, she told herself. But no, this was her dream. She was the one who needed it.

And maybe it was all part of the fantasy, but she couldn’t help but feel that her heart was beating harder not only from lust, but also from a more profound, magical connection.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled away and stripped off the gown.

He straightened and rewarded her with the most erotic gaze she had ever seen in her life, his eyes hot with desire. It burned away her lingering self-doubts in an instant. He fanned his warm palm across the side of one of her breasts and then lowered his leonine head to nuzzle against it. The rough stubble of his jaw abraded her sensitive flesh, sending tingles to her just-kissed lips and all the way down to her toes. He took a deep inhale, and Emily recalled giving her cleavage a light spritz of perfume that morning. A growl came from the back of his throat. Apparently, he liked it.

His tongue darted across her hard nipple, and her back arched involuntarily. He took her nipple into his mouth and sucked. A moan escaped her. He caressed and feasted upon her breasts, his fervor just barely checked, it seemed, by intense concentration on her enjoyment. After a minute, he lifted his head again to give her a tender, ardent kiss that almost brought tears to her eyes.

For a man who hadn’t touched a woman in centuries, Griffin didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. She appreciated that. A lot. But this dream had gone on so long already, and sooner or later, it was going to end.

“Please,” she breathed, pulling at the bottom of his velvet doublet. It looked like it would be difficult to take off.

He stepped back, yanked it over his head with a loud rip of fabric, and tossed it aside.

His fine linen shirt, open at the neckline, revealed a magnificent expanse of shoulder and collarbone. Emily couldn’t resist leaning forward to lick and nip him there, and she relished his sensual groan.

“Take everything off,” she blurted out.

Really? Maybe it was only fair, since she was standing there completely naked, but hearing herself issue a command still shocked her.

The corner of his mouth lifted in an enigmatic smile. He removed his boots and remaining garments at once.

Orange firelight flickered on his bare body. The cliché “Greek god” came to mind, and she’d studied enough sculptures and bas-reliefs to know that description wasn’t exactly right. He looked every bit as powerful but better fed, thicker in a way she liked. No wonder it felt so good to be held by him. The play of shadows emphasized the strong planes of his hairy chest and the intriguing lines that cut a V from his hips downward. His thick, slightly curved cock stood at full attention.

“Good Lord.” Emily sighed.

“Do I please you, mon trésor ?”

Oooh. Well, he’d said he knew French. He made it unbearably sexy with his smooth, deep voice and the darkening lust in his eyes.

His hands grazed along the sides of her body before coming to rest on her hips. “I am glad of it, for your beauty would put Venus herself to shame.”

Emily shook her head. “I’m actually pretty ordinary,” she whispered.

His handsome features reflected genuine confusion. His gaze swept across her exposed body. “Why would you say so?”

“I’m not—”

He cut her off with another fervent kiss. “I swear to God and all His angels, you are the most perfect thing I have ever seen.” His voice cracked on the last word.

And then he knelt in front of her and gazed up at her.

Help. She might swoon for real. Well, he was a knight. He’d probably dealt with a swooning woman or two in his day. In his own bedroom, no doubt. But the way he was looking at her threatened to dismantle every defense she’d ever put up around her mind and heart.

He nudged one of her thighs, urging her to a wider stance. Emily obeyed, her legs trembling again. He stroked his hand between them and, finding her slick with desire, made a low sound of approval. His face was only a few inches away. He could probably smell as well as feel her arousal.

“Aye, you are a goddess,” he murmured, grasping her hip with his free hand. His fingers dipped into her, and his thumb grazed across her needy clit, coaxing a soft cry from her lips. “And at your temple I shall worship.”

She set her hands on his beautiful, broad shoulders for support. He watched her as he touched her, seemingly entranced by her every tiny reaction. Her eyes closed when he pressed into her harder. He rolled his thumb over her swollen bud, sending currents like electricity through her body, enough to fry her brain.

“And at your altar, I will offerings make.” In his seductive baritone, it sounded like the filthiest thing Emily had ever heard. He set his mouth over her clit and sucked on it.

“Oh God.” Hardly knowing what she was doing, she grabbed a fistful of his thick golden hair. The bonfire roared, its flames leaping dangerously high. “Yes. Griffin, please .” His grip on her hip tightened. She was so close—

Something smacked her in the face.

She jerked away.

Her dog’s tail flopped in her face again, and she opened her eyes. She was lying in her bed, alone.

No, no, NO!

She carried Andy War-Howl out in the hallway, plopped him down on the floor, and shut the door. He gave a resigned whimper. She flopped back on the bed, squeezed her eyes shut, and willed herself back into the dream. The streetlight shining through the window didn’t usually bother her, but she pulled a pillow over her face to block it out. Come on —

Nothing. Ugh! She tossed the pillow aside, though she could’ve screamed into it from pure frustration.

In her current state, she had no chance of drifting off again. A heavy ache between her legs begged for a satisfaction she could not have—an orgasm with a knight who was gallant and sinfully skilled in equal measure. The part of her brain in charge of dreams deserved Oscars all around. It had never invented anything so elaborate, or so sexy, before.

His deep voice reverberated in her head. And at your temple I shall worship . Good Lord, but he said pretty things. And while she would’ve expected medieval sex education to be somewhat lacking, he definitely knew his way around down there.

She shucked off her pajama pants and snatched her vibrator from the drawer in her nightstand. In about four seconds, it stopped working.

“Oh God,” she groaned. It needed charging. She tossed it aside and reached down there to do it old-school. Her knight proved to be a very efficient fantasy. Within a minute, her climax brought her relief.

It would’ve been so, so much better in the dream, though. She thought again of the way he’d tasted: like mulled wine spices. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting when she kissed a real medieval knight, but it wasn’t that.

But he wasn’t a real knight. In a dream, he could’ve just as easily tasted like wasabi, and then he could’ve mounted a giant land jellyfish and blobbed away.

So why did all those details feel so convincing?

She grabbed her laptop from a shelf and wrote down as many of them as she could remember. When she finished, she got up and went into her kitchen to make a pot of coffee, choosing the mug from Barcelona. The only foreign city she’d ever visited had struck her as terribly romantic—and the Agbar Tower, depicted on the souvenir, was decidedly phallic.

Had Griffin lived in a castle? Was it on a mug somewhere?

Why did he feel like a real person to her?

She was lonely. That was all. Her sex-starved id had concocted a dirty fantasy.

It had been a lot more than that, though. He’d touched her heart.

It was just a dream, you ridiculous turnip.

But what if it wasn’t?