First Knight: Thornton Brothers Time Travel (A Thornton Brothers Time Travel Romance Book 3) (6 page)

Spirits were high on Saturday night. The warm summer night made everyone ready to let loose and relax. A cool breeze ruffled her ponytail, and for the first time since arriving, Jennifer finally felt like she belonged. Part of the group.

Professor VanHemert had left yesterday after lunch to meet with a colleague at Oxford, and the rest of the group was looking forward to a night on the town.

“You coming along?”

She grimaced. “No. I want to capture the ruins at twilight. It’s my favorite time of day.”

Mark looked bewildered. “You’d rather stay here all alone and paint than come with the lot of us down the pub for a pint? I don’t believe you’d willingly deprive yourself of my fine company. There must be some secret boyfriend coming to visit.”

“No mystery boyfriend.”

The last thing she wanted to do was spend the evening talking and laughing. Surrounded by people and forced to talk to them, feeling like she had nothing interesting to say. After being with the group all day, she was desperate for time to herself to regroup and recharge.

“Next time. I really want to work on my watercolor. The light is so beautiful on the stone this time of day. You all go ahead and have fun.”

“Suit yourself.” He turned away laughing at something one of the guys said.

She waved goodbye as everyone piled into cars, cranked up the radio, and drove away, leaving her blissfully alone. As silence settled over the estate, Jennifer turned in a circle. The re-enactors had left early that morning, off to perform in a festival, and wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. Who knew when she would have the whole place to herself again?

Supplies at the ready, she sat on the folding canvas stool in what she’d come to call her spot in front of her castle. Sure, it was silly to call it
her castle
, but deep in her bones, the stones called to her, singing a song of belonging to this place. So whether in another world or another life, she decided to embrace the feeling and let the creativity flow through her. When the muse showed up, you obeyed or risked her going off pouting and not coming back for ages and ages.

The stack of watercolors in her portfolio was growing. The rose garden and bailey complete. A few of the students had been impressed by the work, so she’d decided to have prints made for everyone before the end of the summer. A couple of originals would go to the professor. One to Mary and Guy of the camp, and a few to keep for herself to mark this magical time in her life.

The feeling this time was somehow special was something she wanted to hold on to when she was back home and working in some office job from nine to five. While she knew her work would never hang in a gallery, it gave Jennifer pleasure. Her mom and dad couldn’t understand it. No one in the family was creative. When she was four, her mom found her drawing pictures on the wall with crayons. Instead of yelling, her parents bought her a blank sketch book and markers. Every book she owned had doodles inside. It was a compulsion.

The artists like Monet with his haystacks, who painted the same scene over and over, capturing the changes in light and seasons, spoke to her soul, and so she’d decided she would paint the same view of Somerforth every time she had a chance, noting on the back the date and time of day. By the end of summer she hoped to fill an entire watercolor pad full of paintings and hang them down her wall in a row to show time passing at Somerforth. Too bad she couldn’t spend a full year here and capture the rest of the seasons. No, her parents would have her head if she stayed, but it would be lovely…

As she worked quickly against the fading light, laying down color, a shimmer in the grass caught her eye. Jennifer put down the brush, stood, and rolled her shoulders to work out the tension. When she painted, she tended to lose track of time, sitting in one position until she was stiff and creaky.

After the warmth of the day, the wind chilled her, making her wish she’d changed from shorts into a pair of leggings and sweatshirt. Shadows danced across the ground and Jennifer looked up, surprised at how fast the deepening twilight had turned ominous. There was a storm rolling in, and quickly from the looks of it. If the wind didn’t pick up, the easel would be fine.
 

With a glance at the sky again, she decided there was time. Thunder rumbled in the distance, making Jennifer run to the spot where she’d spotted the glint in the grass.

It couldn’t be. Jennifer squatted down, hand hovering a few inches above the sword.

“Should I?” Playing out before her was a knight on horseback, riding out from the castle, and she shook her head to clear it.

“Talk about letting the mood of a place get under your skin.” Spending a summer at a castle was bound to make anyone see and imagine things—well, unless they were like her big brother, the extremely serious dentist. He would never imagine anything other than a set of perfect pearly whites.

“Somebody’s going to be in big trouble for leaving you out here.” The professor was pretty easygoing, but this kind of mistake? Leaving a priceless artifact lying in the grass meant somebody would be going home. She should mark the spot and leave it until the group returned from the pub. Find out who was playing with antique swords.

But it might be really late—no, it
would
be late. With the professor gone, they’d close down the pub tonight. And they’d be smashed when they did finally stumble back. What if someone wandered by and stole it while she slept? Then it would be her fault—she’d be the one going home to face the disappointment in her dad’s eyes and watch her mother take to her bed for a few days.

“I better not get chewed out for moving you out of the rain.” She chewed the corner of her lip. There wasn’t time to run back for a clean cloth. The top she wore was splattered with paint, as were the paper towels she’d brought along, and she didn’t dare get paint on the beautiful sword. It might be metal and would wash off, but she’d hate for the professor to be upset.

Thunder cracked again, the smell of rain filled the air, and the hair on her forearms stood up, making her itch. A fat raindrop hit her nose. If she hesitated any longer, today’s watercolor would be ruined.

The moment she grasped the hilt and pulled it from the dirt, the air seemed to shift. It was heavy. There was no one around, but to be sure, Jennifer took a look around before swinging the sword in front of her. The knight this baby belonged to must have been incredibly fit to swing it around left and right.

Lightning arced across the sky and the biggest emerald she’d ever seen seemed to glow. There was some sort of engraving on the blade. Tilting it back and forth, she squinted at the lettering until her eyes crossed. “Thornton.” She looked again. “No way.”

Was this some kind of joke? Was Monica going to jump out and laugh at her? This was Edward Thornton’s home. No way would his sword be sticking up halfway out of the ground waiting for her to find it. One of the others would have found it. And she’d been coming to this exact spot for over a week to paint. No way she would have missed it.

The wind picked up, and she pushed a stray lock behind her ear. The blade looked much newer than the others she’d seen. On those, the lettering was worn partially or completely off, there were cracks in the jewel if there was one, and the blade looked dull. This sword looked…
Well, let’s see.

Today’s watercolor was already ruined. Jennifer ignored it and rummaged in the tote bag, coming up with a cheap scarf she’d purchased in the airport. She blocked the rain with her body, dropped it across the sword, watched it slide down the edge of the blade, and gasped when the two halves were blown away on the wind. It had to be new. No way it would still be that sharp after almost seven hundred years.

Lightning lit up the sky again, and she saw red in the grass. There in the dirt where she’d found the sword was a red stone. Another immense stone. A ruby. The smell of electricity filled her nose and vibrated through the stone and up her arm. The skies opened up, the wind whipping her hair in her face. The easel blew over and was gone.
 

“No.” She ran to pick up the watercolors and brushes, the ruby in one hand and the sword in the other. The ground met her face as she tripped over a rock and went down hard, her fingers skittering down the lettering on the sword as she cried out. Both her palms were skinned and she’d cut the side of her hand. Pushing to her feet, adrenaline coursing thorough her body, Jennifer limped toward the wet supplies, stuffing them in the bag, which had been looped over a stone. Over the thunder and rain, she swore she heard the piper playing.

Lightning hit a tree, the crack so loud she wanted to cower on the ground. As she pulled the bag free from the stone, the ground started to shake. Earthquake?

The ground buckled and she was tossed into the air. Rocks, grass, and roots were all around her, the smell of the earth strong in her nose. The storm raged until finally there was nothing, only gray mist and the ghostly sounds of the piper.

Within the mist, she heard a voice. “To the end of time I will play for you…” The voice faded into the mist as Jennifer said, “I am
not
a Thornton. My name is Jennifer Wilson.”

The voice whispered on the wind, “But you will be.”

Lightning flashed within the mist, the sound of metal screaming made her teeth ache, and the wind swirled around her so strongly that her feet left the ground.

“Make it stop.” She screamed, covering her ears with her hands and closing her eyes tight. “Please, I want to go home.”

The next day, Edward and the men were returning from a skirmish across the border, driving a score of cattle. A minor clan allied with Clan Armstrong had dared to take three stag from his lands, and in return, Edward whisked away the clan’s cattle. No one stole from a Thornton and got away with it.

On the lookout for angry Scots, the men were already wary when a scream sounded through the wood. Urging the horses forward, they came upon a small hut.

“Brom and Alistair, to me. Ballard, lead the men and cattle back to Somerforth.” He dismounted and hit the ground running.
 

With a booted foot, he kicked the door open, unsheathing his sword. Brom followed, leaving Alistair outside to guard their back in case ’twas a trap. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the croft. The home was small but tidy, and as he looked around he saw no threat. Where was the woman?

A makeshift screen in the corner moved, and a woman came forth, saw them, and shrieked.

“We bear you no ill will, mistress.” Edward re-sheathed his sword and held out both hands. “We heard a scream and thought you were in distress.”

Observing her hands, he gripped the hilt of his sword. “You are covered in blood. What mischief is this?”

The woman looked tired and worn as she wiped her hands on a cloth.
 

“Nay, my lord. There is no mischief about. You misunderstand. I have given birth.”
 

He had not noticed the bundle in the basket. She held up the babe for them to see.

Brom shrank back in horror from the child, making Edward bite his tongue. “Where is the midwife?”

“There was not time, and I have no money for a midwife.”

“Where is your husband?” Edward looked around, expecting to see a Scot running toward him, dirk in his hand and teeth bared.
 

She narrowed her eyes. “He died fighting you and your men, Lord Somerforth.”

“And yet you do not come at me with the knife I see in the babe’s blanket.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I am no longer angry. There’s been fighting since I was a child. All English are the same, and the Johnston can be a hard man.”

Alistair ducked to enter the hut, and suddenly the room was too small. “There are no animals. Not even a chicken.” He crossed himself as he caught sight of the girl.

Edward spoke in Norman French to Brom. “Send Alistair to catch up with the man. Bring back two chickens, the cow, and the calf for the woman.”

Brom nodded as Edward and Alistair went outside. The woman watched him, holding her babe close. Reaching into the pouch at his waist, he came out with a handful of coins.

“’Tis a sacred act to bring a babe into the world.”

The woman scowled at the coin then him. “I will not lie with you.”

He rocked back on his heels. “I would not ill-use a woman.”

“Then why? I am of Clan Johnston, your enemy.”

“My fight is not with you, a mere woman.”

She snatched the coins from his hand, stowing them away somewhere within the folds of her dress. The woman stared at him for a while then held out the babe.

“Would you like to hold him?”

“Are you not afraid of an Englishman holding your child? I know what the Scots tell their children about me.”

She chuckled, showing a couple of missing teeth. “Aye. The fearsome Lord Somerforth eats small children.”

His lips twitched, but he made no sudden moves. “Not enough meat on the bones of such little ones.”

The woman slid the small knife into her skirts. “Some English are evil. Some good. Then again, some of my own people are evil. ’Twas a Scot who stole my animals and my food. I care not where you live, only that you have a clean soul.” And with that, she thrust the child at him.