The Druid Knight Tale II

by Ruth A. Casie

  Rebeka is no ordinary seventeenth-century woman—she's travelled back from the year 2011, and she desperately wants to return to her own time. She poses as a scholar sent by the king to find out what's killing Arik's land. But as she works to decode the ancient runes that are the key to solving this mystery and sending her home, she finds herself drawn to the charismatic and powerful Arik.

  As Arik and Rebeka fall in love, someone in Arik's household schemes to keep them apart, and a dark druid with a grudge prepares his revenge. Soon Rebeka will have to decide whether to return to the future or trust Arik with the secret of her time travel and her heart.

  Excerpt

  England

  May, 1605

  I should not have stayed away so long.

  Unable to shake the ominous feeling of being watched, Lord Arik kept the small group moving quickly. On high alert, his eyes continually swept the underbrush bordering the rain-slicked forest trail. He and his three riders escorted the wagon with the old tinker and the woman quickly through the forest. At length, he slowed the pace, the horses winded as they neared the Stone River.

  “The forest is flooded,” he said. “I suspect the Stone will be as well. Willem, ride ahead and let me know what we face at the crossing.”

  Willem did his lord’s bidding and quickly returned with his report. “The river ahead runs fast, m’lord. The bridge is in ruins and cannot be crossed.”

  Arik raised his hand and brought the group to a halt. “We must make repairs Doward,” he said to the old tinker, “there’s no room for the wagon at the river’s edge. You and the woman stay here and set up camp. Be ready to join us at the bridge when I send word.”

  Logan, Arik’s brother, spoke up. “I’ll keep watch here and help Doward and Rebeka.”

  Arik nodded and, with the others, continued the half mile to the bridge. “I am not pleased with this new delay.”

  “It can’t be helped, m’lord,” Simon said. “We would make better time without the wagon.”

  “We cannot leave Doward and the woman in the forest on their own, not with what we’ve heard lately. We’ll have to drive hard to make up the lost time,” Arik said as they came to the crossing.

  The frame of the bridge stood solid, but the planks were scattered everywhere, clogging the banks and shallows. Arik leapt from his horse onto the frame to begin the repairs. “Hand me that planking.” Arik pointed to the nearest board.

  Simon grabbed the nearest plank and examined it. “Sir, these boards have been deliberately removed.”

  Arik reached for the board just as an arrow whooshed out of the trees and slammed into the plank’s edge. Willem pulled his ax from his belt. In a fluid, practiced movement, he spun and sent his ax flying. The archer fell into the river and was swept downstream, Willem’s ax lodged in his forehead.

  A dozen or more attackers broke through the stand of trees. Poorly dressed fighters carrying clubs and knives moved toward them. There was only one sword among them, held by the leader—Arik’s target.

  Arik tossed the board into the river and readied his sword. “They plan to pin us here at the river’s edge. Come, we’ll attack before they form up.”

  Arik and his men surged forward, driving a wedge through the enemy’s ragged line, forcing what little formation they had to scatter and fight, each man for himself.

  A man, club in hand, rushed at Arik. Before the attacker could bring his weapon into play, Arik pivoted around him. He raised his sword high and slammed the hilt’s steel pommel squarely on the man’s head and moved on before the man’s lifeless body collapsed to the ground.

  Willem and Simon, on either side of Arik, advanced through the melee. Their swift swordplay moved smoothly from one stroke to the next, whipping through the air. They slashed on the down stroke and again on the backswing, sweeping their weapons into position to repeat the killing sequence as Arik and his soldiers steadily advanced, punishing any man who dared to come near them.

  “For honor!” Logan’s war cry carried from the small camp to Arik’s ears.

  Arik stiffened. Both camps were now under siege. He pulled his blade from an enemy’s chest. The body crumpled to the blood-soaked ground. Arik breathed deeply, the coppery taste of blood in the air.

  “For honor!” he bellowed in answer. His men echoed his call, arms thrown wide, muscles quivering, the berserker’s rage overtaking them.

  The remaining assailants fled headlong back into the forest.

  Motioning to his men to follow, Arik raced toward Logan and the camp. He could hear shouts and cursed himself for not seeing the danger earlier. He crested the hill and came to an abrupt halt.

  Logan’s sword ripped through the air as he protected Doward. The tinker drew his short blade and did as much damage as he could. But it was the woman Arik noticed. Her skirt hiked up, she twirled her walking stick like a weapon, with an expertise that left him slack-jawed. She dispatched the enemy, one by one, in a deadly well-practiced dance.

  A man rushed toward her, knife in hand. The sneer on his face didn’t match the fear in his eyes.

  She stepped out of his line of attack, extended her stick to her side and, holding it with both hands, swept the weapon forward, striking the intruder across the bridge of his nose. Blood exploded from his face in an arc of fine spray as his head snapped back. Droplets dusted her face, creating an illusion of bright red freckles. As he fell, she reversed her swing and caught him hard behind his knees. He went down on his back, spread-eagled. The woman swung her stick over her head and landed a precise blow to his forehead that knocked him unconscious.

  As the woman spun to face the next threat, her glance captured Arik’s and held. In the space of an instant, time slowed to a crawl. Her hair slowly loosened from its pins and swirled out around her. His breath caught, and his heart quickened as a rapturous surge raced through his body. Something eternal and familiar, with a sense of longing, unsettled him.

  In the next heartbeat, she tore her eyes away, leaving him empty. Time resumed its normal pace. Another fighter lay at her feet.

  Arik joined the fight.

  England

  2008

  “Lady Emily, time for your tea.” Ninety-year-old Lady Emily Parson sat in Fayne Manor’s old solar, now a grand and comfortable drawing room. Resting in the wingback chair that faced the large window she removed her glasses and looked up. Lord Arik’s Journal Chronicled by Doward lay open in her lap.

  Helen, Lady Emily’s housekeeper and companion, brought in the steaming Earl Grey tea along with warm scones and clotted cream. The sweet fresh-baked fragrance of the cakes filled the room. Helen set the tea service on the table.

  “Tea already?” Emily closed the journal and set the book on the table. Her hand lingered. She stroked the old leather binding, her finger tracing the strange embossed letters on the cover. “He must have been a driven man.”

  Straightening herself in the chair, she accepted the offered cup, took a deep breath, and enjoyed the mild orange aroma.

  “Who, m’lady?”

  “Lord Arik. From everything I’ve read, someone was out to ruin him.” Emily stirred her tea with a shaky hand and let out a heavy sigh. “If only we knew where to find his sister Leticia’s diary, I’m certain we would have the complete story.”

  “You’ve been working too hard these last few months. First, organizing your family papers, and now finding this.” Helen gestured toward the book by Emily’s side. “Perhaps Mr. George can take your mind off things. He arrived a few minutes ago.”

  “Are those Helen’s scones I smell?” George Hughes entered the room, his bold strides making fast work of the distance from the door to Emily’s chair.

  Emily watched as he took a deep breath, inhaling the buttery aroma.

  “Ah, there they are. Emily, you’re not keeping those scones all for yourself. What need I do to get one?” He took her hand, kissed it, winking at Helen as she left the room.

  “You, young man, can have one just for asking,”
Emily said as she poured his tea.

  He sat across from her, politely spooning cream onto the small cake.

  Emily smiled, remembering a younger George sitting in the same chair scooping all the cream out of the saucer and onto his scone, leaving the dish empty, his resulting mustache the only sign there had been any cream at all.

  She looked now at a fine young man in his late thirties, tall with a muscular build and dark, loosely waved rich brown hair with a slight touch of gray at the temples.

  There was mischief in his blue eyes as he wiped the last of the crumbs from his mouth with the large damask napkin. “I’ve brought you a birthday present.”

  “A birthday present? Is it my birthday already?” Emily teased him innocently.

  He put the napkin down, went to her and took her hand. “Come. Let me give you your present before dinner.” He helped her up from the chair, tucked her arm in the crook of his and led her downstairs.

  “What’ve you been up to?”

  “You’ll see.” He opened the door to the library. An easel holding a large wrapped frame stood next to the fireplace, flanked by Helen and Charles, the butler. Charles stood at attention, holding a tray of glasses filled with Emily’s favorite champagne.

  “What is this? I stopped celebrating my birthday years ago.” She was girlishly excited that her closest confidants had not let the day go by unnoticed.

  “I think you’ll be pleased. I took the old painting you found in the attic and had it cleaned and repaired. The restoration proved challenging for the art historian. He couldn’t identify the picture’s subject. It was mucked up so badly.”

  He gently sat her in a chair. With a brisk step, he walked to the easel. Standing in front of the painting, he removed the wrapping and stepped to the side for Emily to see the full picture all at once.

  She gasped and brought her trembling hand to her throat. “George, the picture is exactly as described in the journal.”

  “Yes. Here we thought all the family portraits were hanging upstairs in the Grand Gallery. I’ve no idea why some were tossed in the attic. The historian dated this portrait to the late 1500s or early 1600s, making the time correct. Your research appears to substantiate that this portrait is Lord Arik with his brother and two nieces.”

  Emily sat without moving for some time, mesmerized by the picture. No, by Lord Arik. “For months I’ve been studying him, trying to imagine what he looked like. This is a wonderful gift. Thank you so much.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” George took two glasses of champagne and handed one to Emily. He turned to Helen and Charles. “Please join us.” He faced the painting and lifted his glass in salute. “Lord Arik has returned!” He gave a respectful nod and lifted his glass higher. “M’lord.”

  Emily sat in silence, drinking in the painting.

  “If there is nothing else, Lady Emily, Helen and I will see to dinner.”

  “Thank you, Charles.” Finishing her champagne, she turned to George. “Did you bring the papers? I’d like to sign them before dinner.”

  “Yes, I have them here.”

  “You have everything documented. There will be no doubt. You will find her, George.” She sat forward. Concern fixed on her face. “Promise me you will find her.”

  He took her hand and patted it gently. “Everything is as we discussed. There will be no doubt. Locating her won’t be easy and may take some time. We’ve so little to go on. But yes, I promise I’ll find her and personally see to your wishes.” He placed her hand on the arm of the chair and took the papers out of his briefcase that stood nearby.

  Emily noticed how easily he slipped into his business persona. He would do his father proud. Relaxing, she reviewed her will with her solicitor for the next hour. They completed their business just as Charles knocked and opened the library door.

  “Lady Emily, dinner is served.”

  “Very good. Come, George. I can’t wait to see what Helen has planned for my birthday.” She turned to her butler. “Charles, in the morning please have Lord Arik’s portrait hung in the Grand Gallery.”

  Emily looked at the picture. Was his lordship looking directly at her, his blue-green eyes twinkling? With a gracious nod and heartfelt smile, she addressed the picture in a quiet tone. “Good eve, m’lord. ’Tis good to have you home.”

  Also by Ruth A. Casie

  Medieval Romances

  THE DRUID KNIGHT SERIES

  Knight of Runes

  Knight of Rapture

  Knight of Remorse — Coming Soon

  The Red Slippers — A Short Story

  The Druid Knight Tale I — A Short Story—Expanded

  The Druid Knight Tale II — A Short Story

  THE STELTON LEGACY

  The Guardian’s Witch

  The Highlander’s English Woman

  The Maxwell Ghost

  The Pirate’s Jewel

  The Pirate’s Redemption

  Hugh (Sons of Sagamore)

  Graham (Sons of Sagamore)

  Donald (Sons of Sagamore)

  Forever Equals — A Short Story — Coming Soon

  The Guardian’s Sword — Coming Soon

  Contemporary Novellas

  HAVENPORT

  Happily Ever After

  The Witching Hour

  Never Say Never

  Echoes of Betrayal

  How to Marry a Stuart Brother

  Heart of the Matter

  About Ruth A. Casie

  RUTH A. CASIE is a USA Today bestselling author of historical swashbuckling action-adventures and contemporary romance with enough action to keep you turning pages. Her stories feature strong women and the men who deserve them, endearing flaws and all. She lives in New Jersey with her hero, three empty bedrooms and a growing number of incomplete counted cross-stitch projects. Before she found her voice, she was a speech therapist (pun intended), client liaison for a corrugated manufacturer, and vice president at an international bank where she was a product/marketing manager, but her favorite job is the one she’s doing now—writing romance. She hopes her stories become your favorite adventures.

  For more information on Ruth, please join her newsletter or visit her online at

  www.RuthACasie.com

  Ruth@RuthACasie.com

  Timeless Scribes Publishing LLC

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-945679-80-3

  Whispers on the Wind by Ruth A. Casie

  Copyright © 2014 by Ruth Seitelman

  Editor: Mallory Braus

  Copy Editor: Michael Mandarano

  Cover Artist: Keri Knutson

  All rights reserved.

  Except for use in any review, no part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher, Timeless Scribes Publishing LLC, P.O. Box 112, Kenilworth, NJ 07033.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Timeless Scribes Publishing LLC.

  www.TimelessScribes.com