by Lynn Kurland
He nodded and turned the VCR on. The last play-off game. Ah, the tension the lads must feel. Surely it was something akin to preparing for battle, though the stakes were not nearly as high. Though for some it doubtless felt like life or death. How he would have loved to play the game. Such a pity he and Royce couldn’t return to their mortal bodies. They were both young and strong. A career in the NFL wouldn’t be unthinkable.
Tied at halftime. Kendrick groaned and leaned his head back against the couch. Of course it couldn’t have been a clean, decisive victory. Nay, this would be one of those battles that raged on until the last minute and even then, the victory wouldn’t be clear-cut. A rout was what he had needed to see that day. It would have soothed him. He turned off the low sound and let the tape continue. A break in the tension was what he needed.
He closed his eyes and let his mind wander. And wander it did, right back to the cartoon. Ah, the feats the fairy godmother was able to accomplish! Would that such miracles were possible. Perhaps they were, if he just wished hard enough. Just one hour, nay even half an hour. If he could just hold his love in his arms once, long enough to kiss her, to touch her face, to wrap his arms around her and hold her close to his chest. Was that so very much to ask for? Just once? For just a few moments?
Just once. ‘Tis all I ask for. Just once.
Of course, it wouldn’t happen. He sighed. Miracles didn’t happen in these times. He closed his eyes, then shifted his arm. Genevieve’s head was putting it to sleep.
He froze.
Genevieve’s head was resting against his arm.
Not the couch, but his arm.
He wondered if he would ever again take a normal breath. He was touching her. She was touching him. With care born of sheer panic, he lifted his head and looked down at her. Merciful saints, he could feel her!
He slowly reached out and fingered a lock of her hair. He gasped softly when he felt it slide smoothly between his thumb and middle finger. He held his breath and touched her cheek with his hand. Her skin was smooth as a babe’s under his callused palm. The touch woke her and she opened her eyes and smiled up at him.
“Is the game over?” she asked sleepily.
“Nay,” he whispered hoarsely. “ ’Tis but halftime.”
“Then why did you wake…” The words died on her lips as she realized what was happening. Her astonishment was as great as his. “What’s happening?”
“Don’t question it. Just let me touch you.”
She nodded, wide-eyed as his fingers trailed over her cheek. He traced her mouth with his thumb, over and over again, memorizing the feel of it under his hand. Oh, so very beautiful and so very soft. He slipped his hand along her jaw and into her hair. Soft, silky strands falling over his fingers like spun glass, burning his hands where they touched them.
He had to kiss her. He tipped her face up and covered her mouth softly with his own. He took her gasp into his mouth and gave it back to her as he groaned. Soft, sweet and trembling, aye, he knew that was how her mouth would be. He dropped his other hand behind her back and pulled her closer to him, tilting her head further back and parting her lips with his.
She’d never been kissed properly. He knew it the moment he slid his tongue inside her mouth. Her jerk almost pulled her out of his arms. It would have, had he not been holding her so tightly.
“Sshh,” he whispered, leaving her mouth to press his lips against her cheek, her temple, her ear. “Chérie, do not fear me. Come back to me, ma petite.” Ah, how long had it been since he had loved a woman in French, wooed her in his grandfather’s tongue, let the silky words drip off his tongue with slow, sensuous abandon?
Yet, it was different this time. This was his woman. The words had been made for her ears, his hands had been formed for her sweet body, his mouth made to caress only hers.
“My love,” he breathed against her mouth. “Sweet, sweet Genevieve. Tell me this is no dream.”
“It’s a gift. An impossible gift. How long will it—”
His mouth cut off her words. He couldn’t bear to contemplate the possibility of losing her now. If he did, he would kill himself out of grief. He ignored the fears that tormented him and concentrated on the trembling woman in his arms. He parted her lips again and kissed her deeply.
Nay, ‘twas too soon. He was far too hasty for her. It was as he’d known all along. Genevieve would take gentle wooing, not a barbaric possession of her mouth and body. Kendrick pulled away and simply gathered her close to his chest, stroking her back soothingly.
“My Gen,” he murmured. “How I’ve longed to hold you in my arms.”
“Take me to bed. Now.”
He pulled back. “What?” he asked, incredulously.
“While we have the chance, Kendrick.” She trembled as badly as she had the first night, when he had almost scared the life from her. “We have to do it now.”
“ ’Tis too soon—”
“There may not be another chance,” she said, a frantic look coming to her eye. “Please, Kendrick. I’m not afraid.”
That was a lie if he’d ever heard one. He closed his eyes, his common sense warring with his desire.
His desire won. Without warning, he swung her up into his arms and rose, all in one fluid movement. He looked down into her face, his own expression grim.
“This is what you want?”
“Don’t you?”
“I want to wed you first,” he said hoarsely. “But I fear the time is too short.”
“Then love me.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek against his. “Love me while you can.”
Ah, sweet Genevieve, so courageous in the face of certain terror. What a brave warrior she was. He could make it good for her, see that it hurt her as little as possible. If he were lucky, he’d be allowed that much time. He strode to the door.
And then he felt Genevieve slip through his arms.
She cried out in pain as she hit the floor, then clutched her wrist to her chest. Kendrick looked down at her, his mouth agape. He reached for her, stretching out his hand to take hers.
And touched nothing.
“Bloody hell,” he shouted, clenching his fists to his sides.
Genevieve crawled to her feet and collapsed on the couch, weeping with hoarse sobs that wrenched at his gut like a blade being twisted in his belly.
Kendrick couldn’t bear it. He walked through the door and sprinted up to the battlements, waiting until he was there to give vent to his own hoarse cry of anguish. He stood at the wall and wept as the first rays of the sun exploded over the horizon.
Saints above, how much worse could it get?
Genevieve heard the cry echoing in the keep and in her heart. It wasn’t fair! Why? she sobbed, lifting her face heavenward. Why did she have him only to have him ripped away? Why had she felt his arms around her for long enough to taste bliss, then find herself thrust down to hell again?
Despair crashed over her like a wave, robbing her of breath. She clawed her way to the surface of her grief only to be cast down to the depths again. She stumbled to her feet, then felt her way to Kendrick’s private study. She had to end it. They couldn’t go on, not after what had happened. She would sign the papers, give Kendrick his freedom and then she would spend the rest of her life grieving. Perhaps her life would be a very short one. God willing, it would be; then she’d hike up her skirts and run right along to heaven where Kendrick would be waiting for her. It would be better than surviving what had suddenly and with certain finality become the most hellish situation she had ever experienced.
She flung open drawers, tossed papers over her shoulders, searching frantically for the deed she knew had to be somewhere in his desk. She rifled through the side drawers, through the middle drawer, through the cubbyholes that contained nothing but notepaper and stamps.
Then she saw it. Under the blotter. She pulled it free, her hands trembling so badly she could hardly hold it. She set it down carefully, then felt blindly for a pen. Just a s
imple signature. Easily done. She’d signed hundreds of things during the course of her lifetime. She could sign this too.
She put the pen to the signature line. Under the line someone had typed her name with an old-fashioned typewriter. Genevieve Buchanan. Two simple words. She could do this.
She jerked the pen across the line in a shaky imitation of her name, then threw the pen and the deed across the room. She sank to her knees and wept until she was sick.
It was only the stillness that finally brought her back to reason.
She couldn’t hear Kendrick’s shout echoing in her mind any longer.
She called to him with her mind as he’d taught her to do.
Silence.
She lay down on the cold stone floor and cried—deep, wrenching sobs of pure, unadulterated grief.
It was over.
He was gone.
Chapter Twenty-one
The searing pain in his chest was gone. Kendrick’s eyes flew open in surprise. He’d heard the sound of the arrow being released and felt it slam into his chest like a hammer. First there had been breath-stealing agony, then a sweet darkness that beckoned to him, promising peace and surcease from pain. But now he had been restored to life? The very thought made him panic. He jerked frantically on the chains that bound his wrists and they fell away as if they had never been there at all. He freed his ankles just as easily.
Think, de Piaget. Was this another of Matilda’s tricks? Did Richard’s men lie in wait above, armed and ready to do battle with a single, hapless victim? If only Royce and Nazir were alive! The threesome had escaped more than one impossible situation. He looked next to him. Their bodies were gone! He drew his hand over his eyes. By St. George’s throat, he was going daft!
Nay, his captain and his Saracen warrior were dead; he remembered seeing it done. The memory would never fade. Richard would pay dearly for his sport. He would not find his last captive dispatched so easily this time.
Kendrick espied his mail shirt where it had landed after being stripped from him and flung across the room. He dashed over to his gear, then hurriedly wriggled into his mail and seized the tabard bearing his father’s crest. The saints be praised, his sword was there too. He snatched it up, then crept up the stairs with great stealth, knowing full well that the slightest noise could mean certain death.
But—hadn’t he died before?
He shook his head sharply, trying to clear away the puzzling thoughts and images that continued to lap at the edges of his senses. There would be time to sort it all out once he was free of Seakirk. He would ride to Artane, gather his brothers and cousins and come back for revenge. Richard had best enjoy his last days on earth. Once Kendrick had him within arm’s reach, the man would beg for the mercy of an eternity in hell. Kendrick had never in his life felt such blinding hatred. Aye, the man would pray for death long before it came to him.
The main floor was easily gained and Kendrick cast his eyes about for any sign of Richard’s men. There was no one in sight. Then he pulled up short. The last time he saw it, the great hall had been ill-kempt and foul-smelling, worse than the lowest inn he had ever frequented. Now it was clean and fresh-smelling. And what had happened to the rushes?
He smiled bitterly. How kind of Matilda to see to the cleaning so quickly. Of course the floor would have needed a scrubbing after all the men he, Nazir and Royce had killed. Blood and body parts everywhere.
Odder still that the hall was empty. No fires burned in the hearths. No stench of rotting meat from the kitchens assailed his nostrils. Not even a hound dozed on the floor before the fire. It was as if every soul had been plucked from the keep.
Perhaps they were all lying in wait outside. He tightened his grip on his sword. There was only one way to find out. He strode over to the doorway, threw up the bar and jerked it open.
And almost fell over in his shock. By the saints, what had happened to the lists? He put his hand to his head, trying to stop his vision from blurring. Yesterday he’d ridden into Seakirk’s courtyard and sighed at the sorry state of it; now he was looking at a place that had been tended with great care.
He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it. The buildings were still there, looking more worn than before, but in tolerable shape. But instead of dirt surrounding the keep, there was finely laid stone; instead of dirt and sand for the lists, there was sod. And the garden! Saints above, the garden was a fine one!
But it was empty. Kendrick felt very ill at ease. What witchcraft was this? He made his way out to the grass-covered field and looked around him, unable to believe the emptiness of the place.
“Damn you, Richard!” he shouted. “Show yourself! Come and fight me, you coward!”
Nothing. There was no answer.
“You bloody whoreson, come to me!” Kendrick thundered, growing more enraged by the moment. “Come out from behind Matilda’s skirts and fight like a man!”
Genevieve’s head jerked up at the sound of hoarse shouting. What in the world was going on now? A frown crossed her brow. The thick accent made the man’s words almost unintelligible. She rose heavily to her feet and stumbled to the door. It was probably another thug come to try to kidnap her.
She left Kendrick’s study and made her way down the hall, picking up her pace as the shouting increased. Good grief, where was Worthington when she needed him? She ran down the stairs and across the great hall. The door was unbarred and she stopped at the sight. What was going on?
She opened the door and peeked out. The shouting continued, louder now that she could hear the voice clearly. It was a voice that sounded remarkably like Kendrick’s, only this voice was deeper, fuller, rougher.
As if it came from within a man’s chest.
No, it couldn’t be. She shook her head as she hastened down the steps. Don’t even think it, Buchanan! Lord, what a crushing blow that would be! To imagine him alive only to find she was mistaken? No, she wouldn’t survive that.
“Damn you, Richard, you bloody whoreson! Show yourself!”
Genevieve gasped, then sped around the side of the keep to the grassy expanse beyond the stone of the courtyard, to the turf near the garden.
Kendrick stood in the middle of that field, shouting hoarsely. She heard him calling for Richard and Matilda. He was dressed in the clothes that should have been upstairs in their fine, glass cases. His jewel-encrusted sword was in his hand; the early morning sun winked off the blade.
Genevieve’s breath came in gasps and her heart pounded against her ribs.
Kendrick caught sight of the wench as she rounded the corner of the keep. Then she began to run toward him, calling his name. By the saints, what manner of dress was that? She was covered from neck to feet in green fur, a green he had never before seen in his life. Who was she? A Celtic elf from the Scottish forests?
He took a dozen swift strides and caught her by the arm.
“Who are you, bitch?” he snarled.
“Kendrick,” the young woman said frantically, “it’s Genevieve. My love, don’t you recognize me?”
“How do you know my name?” he demanded, wondering at the strangeness of her accent. And she spoke the peasant’s English, and very poorly at that. She was no noblewoman obviously, else she would have spoken French.
“Kendrick, Richard killed you and you were a ghost for seven hundred years.”
“Lies,” he spat. Saints, the woman was a witch!
“You lived at Seakirk all that time,” she rushed on. “I’m the last of the Buchanans and you tried to kill me. We fell in love. This morning we touched for the first time, don’t you remember? Then you were a ghost again and it upset me so that I signed the deed to the castle over to you and I thought you’d really died.”
The last of the Buchanans? Nay, he knew all the Buchanans, and this wench looked little like them. Jonathan Buchanan, aye, he remembered the lad well. Kendrick saw himself standing over the young man, describing his loved ones in great detail as the lad put Kendrick’s description o
n canvas. He saw himself playing chess with Jonathan and felt the frustration of not being able to touch the pieces.
But how could that be? His fingers worked perfectly well. Then from whence came such a memory?
He shook his head sharply, forcing away the thoughts. By the saints, the witch was weaving her spell already. “You lying wench,” he snarled, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her along with him as he strode back to the house. Perhaps if he tossed her in the dungeon, she would be rendered powerless.
“I’m not lying,” the young woman said urgently. “I know everything about you. I know you got the long scar on your chest that afternoon when you and Phillip were fighting with swords, after your father told you not to.”
Kendrick ignored her and broke into a trot, ignoring the woman when she stumbled. Let her heal herself with her black powers.
“I know how when the king offered you Seakirk, you rode off alone that day to the shore and prayed for guidance about what to do. You saw a vision of Seakirk with a garden where the lists had been, with strangely dressed people traveling in little metal boxes with wheels.” A half-sob escaped her lips as she tripped and went down. He hauled her to her feet and continued on his way. “I know that you took that to mean you were to wed Matilda,” she gasped. “That those were your descendants many years in the future. You never told that to anyone, Kendrick, but you told it to me.”
Kendrick lifted his hand to slap the words from her mouth.
Kendrick, we never strike women, not even in anger. Always remember that as your strength is superior, so must be your control of that strength.
Kendrick’s hand hung motionless in the air. By the blessed name of St. George, this was a witch! What did it matter how he abused her?
Not even serving wenches should feel the strength of your blows, son. A woman, no matter her station in life, is one of God’s gentler creatures. Treat them as such.
“Damn you, Father, this is different,” Kendrick growled under his breath, but he lowered his hand and instead clamped it over the witch’s mouth. “Silence, witch,” he hissed. “The Devil is your master and I’ll not hear any more of your blasphemy.”
