Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (18 page)

Jerry was getting a very bad feeling about this. He looked around at the dirt and the filth. The clothing the others wore, the lack of anything modern, and allowed himself for the first time to entertain the idea that maybe he wasn’t where he thought he was. “What is the year?”

“The year of our lord, 1260.”

Jerry stared at him. “That would make this medieval Scotland.”

“Eh?”

“Are we in the 21st century?”

The priest laughed. “21st century, indeed. Christ will come long before then.” When Jerry didn’t respond,
couldn’t
, the man asked, “Were you bashed about the head, my son?”

Jerry didn’t answer.

“Do you come from money?”

Again, Jerry didn’t respond, too caught up in the possibility—the horror—that he could really be in medieval times.

“I only ask because, by yer clothing, it seems you might come from money. I thought perhaps that was the reason Laird Campbell kept you unharmed. Is he hoping to ransom you? Who are your people?”

If this actually was medieval Scotland, what had happened to Samantha? He swallowed hard. Had she truly been burned at the stake, or had that been some sort of weird, sick joke? Perhaps by a...a...historical society or something. That made more sense than medieval Scotland. Maybe they were angry about Samantha digging up the crown and wanted to teach her a lesson? He should never have run away and left her yesterday. He should have protected her. He shouldn’t have let fear turn him into a coward.

But his own situation had been precarious. Still was, for that matter. How could he have helped her when he couldn’t even help himself?

Couldn’t this all be an elaborate trick of some kind? If he just walked down the road would he find himself back in the 21st century, or would he simply find himself still unprotected in medieval Scotland, a target for more bandits? He pressed his hands to his face for a moment, then straightened.

He looked up to find Mad Malcolm had entered the room and watched him. Fear trickled up his spine.

“Your family?” prompted the priest.

Jerry lowered his gaze. “The Callahans. My name is Jerry Callahan.”

“Ah. You’re Irish then? No money there, I’d wager.”

Was he really in medieval Scotland?
Could
he be?

His stomach clenched, threatening to dislodge the small portion of gruel he’d eaten.

He was in
so
much trouble. If he—if
they
—had actually somehow traveled through time, that meant Samantha was probably dead, burned as a witch. The memory of her begging him to return was like a knife in his chest. He had run away. He pressed his palms to his eye-sockets. Like a coward, he had just left her there to die. He should have stayed. But if they’d killed her, then they would have likely killed him too. He just wished that excuse gave him any sort of peace.

He needed to get back to MacGregor land and find out for certain. And then he...no,
they
needed to get hold of that crown. It had to be the key. They’d been fighting over it, he’d placed it on his head, and it had gone from night to day. If he could just get that crown, they could go home again. He wanted his life back, and he hoped to heaven that Samantha still had hers.

~~~

At mid-day Ian sat at the dinner table, but he wasn’t eating. He was thinking of the woman. Samantha. He liked her unusual name. He liked quite a bit about her, and was still wondering what it would have been like to kiss her plump lips. To pull her close. Would she have kissed him back? Would she have—

“Ian, dear,” Janetta said. “Are you well? D’ye have enough to eat, dearest?”

He squelched a flare of irritation. “I’m fine. I thank you, though.” He was grateful for her care, he reminded himself. She’d been as a mother to him, the first he’d had since his own died. His father’s wife had picked at him until his father had finally sent him to live with his English uncle for most of the year. Certainly his uncle’s wife hadn’t taken the slightest interest in him, but at least she hadn’t wished him dead. By the age of ten he’d been farmed out to de Burgh for his training and visits to his English and Scottish homes had come farther apart, and then disappeared altogether.

“Weel, yer not eating enough to keep a body alive, are ye? If you’re worried about poison, you should know I spoke to Cook earlier. No one is allowed near your food. I brought it out myself, and I’ve not moved from this spot.”

Ian suppressed a sigh and threw Janetta a tight smile. He’d also found being fussed over had its disadvantages. She meant well. It was just that he found her mothering to be both blessing and a curse at times. “I’m sorry. I’m just not hungry.” He’d actually eaten something earlier. A loaf of bread he’d filched from the kitchen when he’d dropped in unexpectedly, and could be reasonably sure was untainted—after all, ‘twasn’t for him especially.

“You might wish to try as Cook and wee Jeannie have gone to much effort. Look at Brecken, then. He’s got a hearty appetite, has he not?” She watched Brecken cram his gullet, a pleased expression on her face.

Brecken laughed. “I don’t know how you got so large, Ian. As much as I eat, I should be the more sizable cousin.”

Beth, sitting on Brecken’s other side, passed a bowl of butter. “There are only so many people the poisoner could be.”

Ian glanced up. “You suspect someone?”

Beth shook her head. “We hate to think it could be one of our own, but a stranger would be out of place, noticed and remembered. Only so many have the necessary access to the kitchen to do the deed.”

Ian looked at the food on his own plate. With a sigh, he threw some of the meat to the dog waiting nearby. A few minutes later the dog was still alive and looking hopefully for more. Ian finally took a bite. ’Twas better than listening to them go on about it.

“There, now.” Looking pleased Janetta went back to her embroidery. “Now that that concern is behind me, I’d like to discuss the witch in the tower.”

“She’s no witch. What about her?”

“D’ye honestly think it a good idea to keep her?”

“What else was I to do wi’ her?”

“Mayhap you should not have interfered with the villagers. Now I worry they will rise against us and try and take the witch. I doona wish anyone I love getting hurt over such a female.”

Ian’s lips curved. “Think you they’d dare act against me?”

The men within hearing laughed. “Not likely,” Brecken grinned. “They fear ye too much.”

Janetta’s jaw tightened. “Don’t tempt fate.”

“I don’t believe she’s a witch,” Beth spoke up.

“Nor do I,” Ian said. “But she is interesting. I need to question her more. After I have the answers I want, I’ll escort her to her destination.” But the thought of her leaving had his jaw tightening. Mayhap he’d not get all his answers until after the snow fell. She’d have to stay until spring. Perhaps even summer.

“But her hair. I’ve heard ’tis depraved.”

Beth snorted. “She’s just been trying to pretty herself up, same as any girl will do. I remember the time I caught my Tori smearing ashes on her cheeks because some of the other girls did so. And I asked her what she was thinkin’ about? Would she dig a hole and lie in it if the other girls did? I ask you.”

“I agree,” Ian said. “’Tis just a woman’s trick to make herself more beautiful. Not everyone is like you, Aunt, with natural beauty.”

She smiled, as he’d hoped she would.

“When do I get to see her?” Brecken asked.

Irritation flashed through Ian but before he could say anything, Tori slammed a platter onto the table beside Brecken and everyone turned to see Tori stomping toward the kitchens.

Brecken half-rose to go after the girl, then looked at his mother and subsided, but he continued to glance at the entry.

As they quieted, Ian could hear some of the single men at the next table. One man described the witch to his companions. The men listened with rapt attention, and a bit of fear, mayhap, but when the speaker lifted his hands to his chest, exaggerating curves, Ian cleared his throat loudly, capturing their attention, and sending them back to their meals, quiet now, eyes averted.

He sighed and realized if he wanted peace, he might have to uncover the female’s mysteries and send the woman on her way. Who was she? Where did she come from? Why did she have the crown? And most nagging of all, how had she truly known where he’d hidden it?

The girl might be intelligent, but the falderal about the claws on his mother’s monument being obvious didn’t set well with him. She’d only just arrived in the village and the grass was well grown over the spot. He’d have the mystery solved before she set foot off his property.

Again he remembered the way she’d cursed the villagers. The girl didn’t have an ounce of fear in her. She’d been the one tied to the stake, but the villagers were frightened for their lives when he’d arrived.

“Cousin,” Brecken called out. “What’s happening to your face? Your lips are turning upward, an occurrence I’ve not witnessed before. Are you well?”

Ian’s brows slammed downward and he shot his young cousin a glare as he stood. Had he been smiling? Over the woman? Perhaps he was turning as idiot as the rest of them. The last concern he needed was the lot of them thinking him besotted. “What’s that cousin? Ye find yourself in need of training? Come, let me teach you a lesson or two.”

Brecken laughed and waved his hands in front of him. “Nae, leave off. Never did I see you smile, I’ll swear to it. Besides, I’ve yet to finish my supper.” He glanced toward the kitchens once more.

Ian narrowed his eyes. “Gather the men at sext. I’ll see you soon.” He bowed to Janetta and Beth. “Ladies, if ye’ll excuse me?”

He headed toward the front doors, still determined to question Samantha, but unwilling to climb the stairs with everyone looking on. He’d wait until everyone cleared out. He’d have his questions answered. The sooner the woman left, the better.

He sighed. Mayhap that was a decision best left for another day.

In the meantime, perhaps in a hard training his men he’d find peace.

~~~

Hours later, when the sky started to darken, Ian released the men from their training and headed up to the tower. There was a silent crowd standing in the gloom beyond view of the door, balancing on the steps, and listening. The bread baker stood, his ear cocked to one side. Two of the spinners stared at the locked door, one clutching a wooden cross. One of the minstrels, the clerk’s assistant, and even the boy who turned the spit for Cook stood still, all attention on the tower door.

He considered clearing his throat, but the stiff, attentive way they stood caught his attention. He stopped behind them and listened. A scratching noise and a jingle made his lips twitch. The female was trying to tickle the lock and open the door.

He bit back a smile. He puckered his lips and blew an almost silent whistle and all eyes turned toward him. Surprise and fear registered when they realized he stood behind them, and with a motion of his hand he excused them all.

As they scampered away, he hid around the curve of the wall and heard the woman call out a soft, “Hello?”

There was only silence between them and, after a long moment, and a muttered,
“mice,”
the scratching started up again. A few minutes later he was surprised to hear a quiet snick. The tower door eased open and he hurried silently down the stairs and stepped into a shadowed alcove. Within moments he heard the rustle of material as she made her way down, past his hiding spot, and across the upstairs corridor.

Smiling, he followed, and, as she made her way directly to his bedchamber, his mouth parted. He eased through the portal after her and watched as, without hesitation, and with very little outside light, she knelt in front of one of his well-crafted hiding places.

When she twisted the wood, he froze. How in the name of all that was holy could she have known about that? He’d built it and was the only one who knew the location. And she’d found it in the semi-dark, no less? And immediately?

His mouth tightened as he heard the chink of coins, then her sigh. He could barely make her out as she sank back on her haunches. Another sigh. Disappointed was she? Wanted more, did she?

“Oh, you tricky, tricky Scot. Where else would you have hidden it?” she said the words softly, but he heard, just the same.

“Hidden what, lass?”

She gasped, struggled to her feet, and faced him. With a hand to her chest, her expression distrustful, she said, “The crown. What else?” She shifted from one foot to the other. “I told you, I just need to borrow it for a little while.”

He shut the door, took a moment to light a candle, then drew near and peered into the hole she’d exposed in the floor. Three sacks, full of coins, seemed intact. Two golden goblets, jewelry, and gem-encrusted daggers. He looked at her empty hands, at her skirt. He would have heard her pocket clink if she’d taken any coins, so, not a thief then—or mayhap he’d interrupted too soon. He placed the floor boards back over the hole and twisted it into place until the lines were completely concealed by the wood grain on the surrounding floor.

“Explain yourself. How could you have found this? It took me a solid week to craft and I had to bar the door and pretend I was sickly the entire time so none would discover it. No one has, until now. I’d like an explanation that doesn’t include witchcraft or the fact that you noticed something and figured it out yourself.”

She looked away, bit her lip, and it irritated him that she was so beautiful in the candlelight, that the gesture could so easily draw his eyes to her mouth. “I told you. I studied you. You don’t have many secrets from me.”

The woman might be beautiful, but she was daft. “Think you I wouldn’t have noticed you hanging about, spying upon me?”

She shrugged. “All you need to know is that I will find that crown.”

“Mayhap. Mayhap not. Are you a witch in truth, then? A seer?” Even as he said it, he didn’t believe. He might not know—yet—how she came by her knowledge, but he would.

She ran a hand through her red locks and sighed, attracting his attention once again, making him wish he could touch her hair. “No. Not a witch or a seer.” She looked around his room. “Oh, wow. Your bed is awesome.”