Romancing Miss Right by Lizzie Shane Page B

she’d seen him with Louisa, but
now she had to wonder if there was something actually wrong with
her.
    A cheer went up and Marcy forced her
attention back to the arena below. Craig and Mark L. had somehow
taken center stage, their swords clashing with muted thunks rather than the clang of metal. Mark L. whirled, going for one of
the flourishes the fight choreographer had taught them and Craig
brought his own sword up to counter just a little too slowly—Mark’s
sword thwacked Craig square in the face, eliciting a sympathetic
groan from the audience as he fell to his knees.
    “Craig!” Marcy flew to her feet, her banner
falling from her hands. Both Mark and Craig dropped their swords to
the ground—Mark in horror and Craig to bring both hands to his face
where bright red blood began to gush from his nose.
    A trumpet sounded and the melee in the arena
stumbled to a halt as Marcy rushed down the steps to the arena
floor. Medics in medieval garb were already kneeling at Craig’s
side. Marcy wove through the other competitors, hearing Aidan
mutter, “Why didn’t I think of that?” as she flew past.
    Then she was beside him, where blood was
already turning the dirt of the arena dark.
    “I’m so sorry,” Mark L. groaned, hovering
nearby.
    “It’s nothing, man,” Craig slurred—or at
least that’s what she thought he said through the towel pressed to
his face. He’d tipped his head down to speak and the medic gripped
his chin, tipping it back up again to staunch the blood. The white
towel was already soaking through.
    “That’s a lot of blood for nothing,” Marcy
said. “Is it broken? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
    “And leave the date? Hell, no.”
    “It doesn’t appear to be broken,” the medic
said. “Just a gusher.”
    “See?” Craig said, though it came out as sthee . “Nothing.” He pulled away the sopping towel, and the
blood seemed to have finally stopped pouring out of his nose,
though the lower half of his face was caked in red. “So did I
win?”
    #
    Two hours later, Marcy and a cleaned-up Craig
stood on the battlements in the Renaissance Faire’s Queen’s Castle,
looking out over the lights of the Faire below as the rest of the
men waited in the dungeons below for his awarded private time to
end.
    She cocked her head, studying her
slightly-banged-up knight. A bruise was beginning to form beneath
his left eye—he was going to have quite a shiner to go with his
swollen nose—but he somehow managed to make the bruises work for
him, lending him an air of danger. Not that he needed any help in
the sex appeal department. The man only had to look at her to set
her panties on fire.
    “I think some of the guys think you took that
hit on purpose.”
    He grinned, rakish and unrepentant. “I
did.”
    “You risked your pretty face just for some
alone time with me? I’m flattered.”
    “I made sure it was Mark L. who hit me.
Figured he wouldn’t have a very strong arm.”
    “Very Machiavellian of you.” She realized she
was fighting a grin again. Even when she knew he was trouble, she
felt so alive being with him, like champagne bubbles were fizzing
through her blood. “I suppose I should have expected it would get
violent.”
    “Hell yeah, you should have. We’re all
hard-wired to fight for the prize to begin with and you gave us
swords.”
    “So I’m the prize, am I?”
    “Did you think you were anything else?”
    She knew she shouldn’t like the glint of
challenge in his dark eyes, but when he pushed it just made her
want to push back. “I think I’m the one in the driver’s seat and I
can send you home whenever I want.”
    “But why would you want to do that? I’m the
only one who’s honest with you.”
    “Is that so? Show me some of this honesty.
Tell me something true, Craig. Something real.” She leaned against
the fake-stone wall, surprising herself with how badly she wanted
to scratch the surface of his bullshit and see who he was
underneath.
    “Something