Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (28 page)

Marshall’s face reddened, his expression twisting into a mask of anger.
“
’Tis
Lady Marshall,
to you.”

Ian truly didn’t have time for this, but something in him couldn’t help ribbing the other man. “After we shared a tent together? Surely she’d wish me to call her Gillian. Does she miss me? Call my name in her sleep?”

Rage suffused Marshall’s face and he lunged, made a grab for Ian’s throat, but Ian blocked him and they scuffled for a moment, seizing wrists, forearms, twisting away, neither man obtaining the upper hand. With an exclamation of disgust, Marshall shoved off Ian’s chest, and they faced off again, both of them breathing hard. Marshall pointed a finger in Ian’s face. “I will see you in the lists, MacGregor. Else you are a coward.”

“I might be busy wi’ the ladies.”

Marshall’s face tightened, his jaw clenching so hard Ian feared for the man’s teeth. In a swift move he turned and walked away, making a lewd gesture over his shoulder.
“Else you are nothing short of a coward!”

Ian laughed softly, then turned toward Malcolm. “You followed us here? Found Marshall and brought him? Why?”

Malcolm, eerie blue eyes lit with cunning, light hair blowing unchecked across his face, appeared more unhinged than usual. “Where is the witch, MacGregor?”

He deliberately didn’t glance round for Samantha, keeping his stance and tone casual. “We burned her, ages ago.”

Malcolm’s face fell, his mouth dropping. “You dinna do such a thing. I had use for her.”

A prickling sensation tickled Ian’s spine as protectiveness rose within him. He willed Samantha to stay inside the tent as he fought the desire to plow his fist into the man’s face and the craving nearly overwhelmed his instinct to act unconcerned, uncaring. Taking a breath he tried for a polite expression, and asked, “What kind of use?”

“When I wear the crown I will have need of a powerful seer under my control.”

“Is that so? I’ll let the king know you’re plannin’ an invasion.”

Unfazed, Malcolm arched a brow. “It willna take an invasion, will it? ’Twill only take a crown.”

Samantha crawled from the tent, Ian could see her out of the corner of his eye, and he wrapped an arm around Campbell and, though the man resisted, pulled him effortlessly in the other direction. “Come. We must needs discuss this further.”

“Ian! Wait up. Where are you going?”

Ian bit back a groan as Campbell ducked out from under his arm and, as the man turned, Ian considered striking him unconscious before he got a good look at Samantha, but waited too long in deciding.

Samantha hurried forward, her hair shining its berry hue in the evening light. She smiled up at him, looking so beautiful his heart sank. “What are the plans tonight? Are we going to do something fun?”

Malcolm’s face lit with glee. “Your hair.”

Samantha reached up to touch the glossy locks. “I know, right? Oh, we’ve met before. You sat across from me at dinner the other night. Laird Campbell, isn’t it?” She stuck out her hand and, again, Ian bit back his instincts to knock Campbell’s away as he accepted her offer.

Campbell couldn’t seem to take his gaze from her hair. “’Tis her, is it not?”

“Nay,” Ian said. “’Tis my cousin.” Ian couldn’t stand it and, with a rough jerk, pulled Campbell’s hand from Samantha’s.

Samantha’s brows rose in confusion. “Pardon?”

“She speaks as a seer,” Campbell sounded delighted. “As the one I already have. I should have recognized such the other night.”

A frisson of danger, of premonition, and another chill raced up his spine. “You force me to be blunt. ’Tis my mistress, and I dinna care for the way you gaze upon her. Begone.”

“Mistress?”
Samantha protested.

“I’ll take the girl. She’s vital to my plan.” Campbell snared Samantha’s wrist and tugged her forward.

Ian shoved Campbell back, breaking his hold. “Samantha, go inside the tent.”

Thankfully she did so without comment.

Malcolm looked up at Ian, unholy triumph lighting his face. “Thank you for finding her, MacGregor. I’ll use her well, I swear it.” He took a long hard look at Ian’s tent, then turned and left.

Ian had seen that sort of unreason before. As a lad when his step-mother held sway over him. In fighters who’d nothing to lose. At court when ambition overrode sense or feeling. He knew that, as absurd as Malcolm appeared, if he could get hold of Samantha, or influence others to his way of thinking, she could well be in danger.

He hated to admit it, but he almost felt for Lord Marshall. Another wanting your woman, for whatever the reason, didn’t sit well. Too bad the man was so irritating Ian found it impossible to resist provoking him.

One matter was certain. With Lord Marshall and Laird Campbell around, Ian didn’t dare leave Samantha unattended. Aye, he would keep her always at his side.

~~~

The next morning, Ian woke, determined to find King Alexander. The previous night he had searched everywhere, but none could find him or his guards. However, Ian had a pretty good idea where Alexander had disappeared to. If past experience proved correct, he’d be with the lady who currently held his affections, married or no, whoever she might be. Probably within Stirling Castle, but not necessarily. A tent would do him as His Highness wasn’t particular. So Ian had given up and returned to his own camp, wrapped crown still in hand, only to find more disappointment—Samantha fast asleep, the hard ride having taken its toll.

She slept still, and, after a long look at her tranquil face, he quietly left the tent. He beheld the men going about their duties, then glanced inside the four remaining tents, but couldn’t find Brecken. When Dugald appeared, Ian asked, “Where’s Brecken?”

“He left early, purpose unknown.”

No doubt the young man was in search of entertainment. “Keep a close eye on Samantha. Campbell might try and get his hands on her. So might Marshall if Campbell whispers in his ear.” Four strides out of camp, he rethought his plan, and passed the crown to Dugald. “Watch this, as well.”

The night before he’d felt conspicuous, carrying it about. After he spoke to the king this day, they could arrange a delivery.

It took a while, and a few false leads, but he finally found the monarch in the stands before the jousting field with the English King, Henry of Winchester.

“Lord MacGregor, ’tis good to see you hale,” King Henry said warmly.

Ian bowed his head. “Aye. Thank you, Majesty. You, as well.”

King Alexander shot the older man a sour look. “’Tis
Laird
MacGregor. He’s Scottish.”

“His mother was English,” the king said pleasantly, his tone guaranteed to irritate the younger man. “He won his spurs under de Beaumont, on English soil, if I recall correctly.”

Ian suddenly remembered how much he truly hated politics and dealing with those in power.

The young king bounded to his feet. “
Laird
MacGregor, what have you been doing? Enjoying your new lands?”

Expectation glowed in the king’s eyes.

Ian didn’t disappoint. “Aye, and I thank you once again for your generosity, Your Majesty. I must needs speak wi’ you. A matter of utmost importance.”

The young king smiled at the older one, turning even Ian’s statement into a competition between them. “So speak. But first I would know why you’ve not displayed your banner.” He gestured toward Stirling’s wall where other standards fluttered in the wind. “Have you no intention to fight?”

“I do not.”

King Alexander’s expression turned sly. “Come now. I have it on good authority that Lord Marshall longs to test your strength.”

“My champion against yours?” King Henry was quick to insert.

King Alexander’s face lit with excitement. “A grand idea. Perhaps a wager?”

Neither glanced at Ian now, both stared at the other, challenge in their expressions. “I accept. Jousting or swords?” The younger king challenged.

“Lord Marshall will insist upon swords, I believe.” King Henry smiled in anticipation.

Alexander’s lips curved. “Swords it be.”

For his part, Ian felt resignation weighing upon his shoulders, but he didn’t let it show by so much as a flicker of his eyes. Deep down, he’d known this would happen. Not with Marshall, certainly, but that the king would wish him to fight so as to display him as his champion.

It wasn’t necessarily that he dinna wish to. ’Twas more that he loved being his own man for the first time in his life. As a lad, he’d fought hard for his rights, both at home, and at his Uncle’s place in Northumberland. Scottish baseborn might have been whispered behind his back, but after he’d bested the loud mouths, never again to his face.

As an unwanted son, and nephew, with no expectation of money, he’d fought to make his fortune. Eventually his reputation caught the attention of young Alexander, and Ian’s fighting had been at the boy’s pleasure. Still, in the end, while the king may have given Ian the land for his own reasons, he’d given it. Ian’s freedom, and chance at a home, meant much to him. He certainly would do naught to jeopardize it. Which reminded him, he needs must be the one to tell the king of the discovery of the crown, before he heard it from others. “I would talk wi’ you in private, Sire.”

Alexander nodded. “After your fight we’ll have a nice, long chat.”

Ian knew an order when he heard one. “As you wish.” He nodded respectfully, considered bowing to the space between the two kings, then specifically bowed to King Alexander. “My liege.”

He could tell that pleased the young monarch. “MacGregor.” The king bowed his head. “I’ll look forward to the match.”

Ian backed away, facing the men until he was at a respectful distance before turning.

He took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. His list of actions kept growing. Keep the crown safe and give it back to the king before he heard tale of it. Keep Samantha from being taken. Fight Marshall and keep the addled man from killing him. Oh, and never forget, find the villain who wished him dead in his own household. Was it too much to ask to stay home, ready his clan for winter, and spend time getting to know Samantha?

One day in the presence of kings and life became thorny and problematic, once again.

Chapter Sixteen

Samantha inspected a merchant’s display of silk garments and glanced back to see Dugald still following. For about the tenth time, she squinted at the bag he carried and decided it was time to abandon subtly. “So, what’s in the bag?”

Dugald’s stoic expression didn’t falter and he gave no response. She hadn’t really expected one, so no surprise there. She turned her attention to the display and a woman lifted a blue silk scarf for Samantha’s inspection. The material was amazing, the color beautiful. She wished she had some money.

The lady selling the scarf smiled encouragingly, but much to her obvious dismay, Samantha only returned her smile and continued on.

Dugald, now one tent over, bought a couple of meat pies and handed her one. Her brows rose. She’d thought the guy didn’t like her. “Thank you.” She took a bite. “Mm. It’s good.”

As they walked on, she glanced at the bundle tucked under his arm. “So, do you know how silk is produced?” She took another bite of the warm pie. It really was delicious, the meat tender and the crust flaky. They passed a selection of fruits and vegetables, some wool and other cloths, a display of ribbons.

Dugald never did answer, so she finally said, “It comes from worms.”

That caught his attention. “Worms?”

“Sure. It all started in China, of course. They had an exclusive industry going. Then some monks stole a bunch of worm eggs, hid them in hollow bamboo, and smuggled them into...Italy, I think. Which is why silk is more readily available here. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Worms, did ye say?”

“As soon as the little buggers spin their cocoons, they’re boiled, the worms removed, and the cocoons made into silk thread. One worm can spin a thread that will go from here—to that mountain.” She pointed to a peak about a half mile away. “The material is surprisingly strong. But in the end, it’s really just worm spit.”

Dugald chuckled and took another bite of his pasty.

“In some cultures they eat the discarded worms with rice. It’s considered a delicacy.”

Dugald grunted a sound of disgust.

“But you Scots can’t really judge because you eat haggis.”

“Which is delicious.”

“Maybe so, but it’s just the thought of it, right? Sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs boiled in a sheep's stomach. Throw in some oatmeal and it’s considered a pudding. I mean, ew, right?”

“I’ll remind you of that come winter, when I’m savorin’ your portion.”

She laughed. “Deal.” She glanced at the bundle again. “So what kind of material is that? Wool?” She gestured toward the parcel tucked under his arm.

His ironic glance told her she wasn’t as tricky as she thought.

“Oh, come on.” She lowered her voice. “It’s the crown, isn’t it? Can’t I just see it?”

Dugald shook his head, his eyes telling her she’d disappointed him. For some reason she felt herself flush. She turned her attention to some pottery. It was funny to think she could buy, right now, what years in the future would be a cool item to dig up. Heh. Maybe she should take Ian’s suggestion, purchase something, and bury it somewhere to find later. Oh, yeah, the no money thing. She glanced at Dugald and wondered if he’d spot her a few coins. She opened her mouth, but he shook his head before she could even ask. She laughed. “Cheapskate.”

“Aye. Scots.” He actually grinned, showing surprisingly straight, white teeth.

A voice behind her said, “There is no way on God’s green earth that hair color didn’t come out of a bottle.”

An
American
accent?

Eyes wide, Samantha turned to gape at the beautiful young blonde, obviously wealthy from the looks of her silk dress, jewels, and intricately braided hair. “No way,” Samantha said. “No flippin’ way.”

The woman giggled.

Samantha continued to gape. “Oh, my gosh. Where did you come from?”

The woman laughed. “You’re American! I knew it. I haven’t seen hair that color since I arrived.”

Samantha was grinning at her compatriot, a feeling of relief rushing through her, making her lightheaded. “Actually, it was Hades Red, but I kept getting called a witch so Ian, the guy I’m hanging out with, stained it with crushed berries.”