Free Stranger in Camelot by Deborah Smith Page A

wanting to scratch the throbbing itch just under the edge of his shorts leg in back.
    John gritted his teeth in a smile. “I apologize.”
    Then he realized, as he studied Agnes’s crinkling eyes, that behind the gloves she was struggling not to laugh. “Don’t,” she said in a strangled voice. “I’m s-sorry, It’s not f-funny.” She made snuffling sounds behind the gloves.
    “Agnes! How could you!”
    “You’re real. You’re human and real.” She lowered her hands and drew her face into a mask of control. “I’ve never heard a man sound quite so, uh, real, in my whole life. I’m glad. I thought you were too perfect to be true. I feel a whole lot more comfortable now.”
    “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He felt relieved and surprised.
    She tugged her gloves off, reached over the half-mended fence, and grasped his injured hand carefully. She brought it close. Her smile disappeared and she made a sharp sound of sympathy. “I am sorry. This is terrible.”
    John looked at the blood around his thumbnail with secret appreciation. It was nice to have Agnes fuss over him. It was serving his purpose, making her care about him. And … oh, hell, it was just nice for its own sake.
    “I’m sure I’ll live,” he said bravely.
    “Come on, I’ve got antiseptic and stuff at the house.”
    “No, that would take too much time. I’m fine. Really.”
    “But you’re going to bleed all over my pasture.”
    “No, only in this corner of it.” He liked the cozy way her hands cupped his, and he pulled his hand away reluctantly. “I’ll clean my thumb up a bit, and then we’ll get back to work.” He reached for the tail of his T-shirt.”
    “Wait. Don’t.” She chewed her lower lip for a second, then grumbled something mild under her breath and unbuckled her tool belt. After she let it drop she began unbuckling the slender leather belt that held up her shorts.
    John eyed her askance. “This is an interesting form of first aid.”
    “You’re a lucky man.” But she only loosened the belt a few notches, so that her shorts slid down to the top of her hipbones and hung there in tantalizing jeopardy of falling farther. Her T-shirt covered her stomach, but John glimpsed white panties.
    The panties were waist-high and demure. But thejagged horizontal tear revealing her navel was fantastic.
    “Nice style,” he said, even though a gentleman ought to look away. For the moment, he had to be himself.
    “Dogs got hold of them.” Her rosy cheeks flushed red at the centers as she lifted her shirt’s hem over one hip and quickly grabbed the panties’ waistband. She ripped the thin, cottony material from the band down to parts unseen under her shorts.
    John let his imagination fill in the details. “You’re giving me your lingerie?” he inquired solemnly. “I’m honored.”
    “I’m giving you my old cotton drawers. There’s a difference.”
    “Only in form, not in spirit.”
    “Don’t get philosophical about my underwear.” She tore the other side then turned her back. “Guess you can’t see anything anyway, but I’m having an attack of modesty.”
    “Agnes, you’re the dearest bundle of contradictions in the world. I can curse like a drunken sailor and you laugh, but now you’re embarrassed about revealing an innocent bit of material.”
    “That’s me,” she said over one shoulder, while maneuvering privately with the front of her shorts. “A bundle of contradictions.”
    “A lovely mystery.”
    “Don’t say I never gave you anything.” She bent her head and fiddled with the panties she had pulled free. He heard ripping sounds. She tucked a wad of remnants into one of her back pockets as she pivoted and faced him again. “Gimme your thumb.”
    He held out his hand obediently and she wrapped a strip of soft, warm cotton material around it. She tore the end of the strip in two and twined the ends around his thumb and tied them. “I played a nurse’s aide once on Marcus Welby . I knew it’d