Concentrating to shut out the sounds of the rats in the corner and the man across the hall who had begun an eerie kind of singsong chant, Kendra forced herself to remember the details of the strange storm.
There had been blue lights hovering above her, she remembered that. But wait, before the lights appeared she had felt a strong, magnetic current that seemed to pull her across the field and into the crop circle. The crop circle! Of course, it all made sense now. Hadn't she read the theories of scientists who believed that England possessed the strongest magnetic poles on the planet? Hadn't she even read Ian McKay's belief that the magnetic "storms" that formed the circles disrupted the time-space continuum?
Suddenly it all made perfect sense. Whatever the power was, whatever the blue lights were, they were the source of the mysterious crop circles that had appeared in England for decades, perhaps centuries. If indeed they had created some sort of time portal—which suddenly seemed altogether reasonable given the events of the past day—then she had actually been taken back in time to the year 1194, to medieval England, to the days of knights and crusades and the burning of witches.
"Oh my God," she gasped. Running her tongue across suddenly dry lips, Kendra forced the panic from her mind. All right, if she had done the impossible and traveled through time, then she could do the impossible again and travel back to her own time. If she survived that long.
Kendra's hands turned suddenly clammy. Navarre had made it plain she was his enemy. She frowned, thinking back to their days together. Not only had he accused her of being a witch, but he had called her "Richard's salvation." What did that mean? He had mentioned the name "Locksley" too. She wasn't an expert on history, but as a teenager she had loved stories about medieval times, especially the days of Robin Hood, and Robin had been the Earl of Locksley, hadn't he? Robin of Locksley. Robin Hood. Richard. King Richard the Lionheart?
Kendra shivered and kicked out with her feet just to insure the vermin inhabiting the cell kept their distance as she thought about her hunch. Locksley and Richard. Navarre's accusations revealed that he believed she was working for the two men, or with them. That in turn had to mean that Navarre was not one of the guys wearing a white hat in this scenario.
She grimaced and shifted her position on the rotting haystack she'd been forced to use as a bed. The fact that Navarre was obviously not a hero came as no surprise to her. What she couldn't understand was how she could have been attracted to him. The image of Navarre, naked and hot against her, flashed through her mind and resolutely she pushed the picture away.
Locksley and Richard. But those were just fairy tales, weren't they? At least, the ones about Robin Hood. Of course there really had been a King Richard. She bit her lip, trying to recall the college class she had taken on medieval literature. Richard the First, so courageous he was known as the Lionheart, had journeyed to the Holy Lands to make war on the Muslims, leaving England unprotected and unguided. His brother John had tried to take over in his absence, initiating unfair taxes and harsh penalties. According to legend, Robert of Locksley had become an outlaw, called Robin Hood, sworn to defend England from John and the Sheriff of Nottingham until Richard returned. Wasn't that how the story went?
She shivered again, rubbing her arms vigorously against the dank chill of her prison. How long would he leave her in this hellhole? she wondered. How could he have left her there at all after what they had almost meant to each other? One corner of her mouth quirked up, and she was glad that in spite of the madness of the situation she still had her sense of humor. Or was she simply losing her sanity? That would be easy to do under the circumstances, and yet, she'd never felt so sharp, so clear minded, now that she knew what was happening.
It was the reporter in her, she supposed. Strange, even in the face of this incredible danger, every bone in her body screamed out "What a story!" It was silly, because even if she could get back to her own era, who would ever believe she had journeyed back in time? She'd be just another tabloid headline: "Journalist Travels Back In Time—Meets Robin Hood!" Kendra smiled. At least it would give Mac's fledgling paper a boost in the right direction.
Her smile faded. What was she thinking? She would likely never see Mac again. In fact, it was very likely that within the next twenty-four hours she would be burned at the stake or however they executed witches in 1194. Or maybe they would just let her starve to death in this horrible pit of despair. Kendra closed her eyes and shuddered. To die amid the stench, the filth, the rats, that would be the most terrible fate she could imagine.
"Navarre," she whispered aloud, "don't leave me here to die."
"I will not."
Kendra jumped to her feet at the sound of the deep, familiar voice. She almost rushed to the door but stopped, reminding herself that this man was not her rescuer but her captor.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked, hating the trembling sound of her voice. "I haven't done anything to you."
She could hear a key grating in a lock, then the door swung open. Navarre entered and the cell suddenly seemed much smaller. Kendra swallowed as the intensity of the golden eyes flickered in the light of the torch he held, boring through her.
"You have done much to me," he said softly. Reaching up he slid the torch into the metal wall socket designed to hold it, then moved through the dim light to her side. "You have done all you set out to do."
One hand lifted to cup her face, tilting her chin toward his, and before Kendra could protest, she was drowning once again in Navarre's embrace. His mouth plundered hers with a tenderness that, under the circumstances and considering the things he had accused her of, made little sense.
No! her mind shouted, as desire began to churn inside of her. He was her enemy. He was the bad guy. He had thrown her in a dungeon, how could she possibly want him?
But she did. When Navarre gathered her more tightly against him, she twisted her fingers into the dark texture of his hair and met him, passion for passion. His mouth devoured hers, his hands burned as they slid down the sides of her face, her shoulders, her breasts. His legs, hard and muscular pressed against her, forcing her backward until her spine touched the cold stone wall of the dungeon. It was the cold that brought her to her senses.
"What have I done to you?" she said breathlessly, pushing away from him, only succeeding in separating them slightly. "What have I done?"
"Bound me to you," he whispered, crushing her against him once again. "Made me burn with a fire that only you can quench. I cannot be near you without touching you. I cannot sleep for thinking of how I long to make love to you. I went into the forest to try to escape the thought of you. I cannot."
He squeezed his eyes shut. "God have mercy on me—you have ensorcelled me."
"No." Kendra heard the pica in her voice and fought for control. If she didn't know better she'd think it was the other way around—that he had used magic on her. Never in her life had she felt such passion, such flame, such raw desire as the knight pressed himself against her. "What I said about casting a spell on you, it was a joke—" she choked out "—a jest. I told you, I thought I was dreaming. I had hit my head, I didn't know I was awake!"
"No," he said, their faces inches apart, his golden eyes like a living flame. "You are a witch and you have enchanted me."
He turned away from her abruptly, leaning the flat of both hands against the wall in front of him. Kendra saw the tension in the set of his shoulders, the muscles straining taut beneath the soft fabric of his tunic. She longed to reach out and touch him, caress the knotted muscles.
"When I do my duty and bring you before the sheriff," he said, his voice low and muffled, "then I must watch you die and it will be like a knife thrust deeply into my heart." He sighed and Kendra saw the tension ease from his shoulders with the admission. "I beg you, in the name of God, release me from this torture. Repent and go to your death in a state of grace. I can fetch a priest." He lowered his hands from the wall and straightened, lifting his head with a kind of stoic resignation. "H
e will hear your confession."
Kendra moved to stand beside him. "I haven't enchanted you—I swear I haven't. I am not a witch. Let me go, Navarre." Kendra reached up and touched his face lightly. He closed his eyes and the look on his face was that of a man going through a great tribulation. "Let me go back to where I belong. Please, Navarre." Her hand slipped to rest lightly on his forearm.
"I cannot." He tried to move away but Kendra tightened her grip. With obvious reluctance he looked down into her face. For a long moment suspended in time they gazed at one another until at last Navarre shook his head slowly. "Nay," he said hoarsely, "I cannot."
"I am not what you believe me to be," she whispered. "I am not a witch, nor am I Richard's salvation. I am…" she stopped, aware that if she began babbling about being from the future he would no doubt think her completely mad. What did they do with madwomen in medieval times? The word "bedlam" crossed her mind, and with it pictures of dungeon-like rooms inhabited by the insane.
"I am just a peasant girl who got lost." She lowered her gaze. "Please, Sir Navarre, please let me go home."
"Nay," he said softly, then turned and to her surprise, took her back into his arms. "But neither will I treat you in this manner. Your sorcery will at least insure you of a warm place to sleep and decent food."
"I'm not—" Kendra broke off, too tired to pursue the argument further.
"Come with me," he said, pushing the rough planked door open. Stunned for a moment, Kendra quickly recovered and hurried out of the dank cell, not daring to question why her captor was releasing her. She stopped abruptly and went back inside, searching the floor of the cell in a kind of panic. Her bag. Her bag contained all she had left to her in the world, all that she was.
"What are you doing?" Navarre said crossly. "Do you wish to remain here?"
"No, I'm just looking for my—there it is." Kendra pounced on a pile of straw, remembering belatedly that she had hidden the bag under the filthy covering and sat on it in the hope that the rats would not find and destroy it. One was gnawing on the strap as she crossed the cell and she kicked it away, ignoring its squeal of protest.
"Give it to me," Navarre ordered, holding out his hand. "Where did it come from? I do not remember you having it when I brought you here. Did you conjure it from the air?"
Kendra clutched the bag to her chest obstinately. Then, with a sigh, she held it out to him.
"No, I did not 'conjure' it," she said, spitting out the word. "I've had it with me the whole time. Can I help it if you aren't very observant?"
"Be silent," he said, almost casually. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he motioned for Kendra to walk in front of him.
When she hesitated, Navarre glanced back into the cell and with a muttered curse, she complied. Silently they walked down the dark corridor until they reached the end of the hallway where a flight of steps led upward.
Clenching her fists tightly to keep herself from making a futile attempt to escape, Kendra could hardly contain herself when they reached the top of the stairs. Daylight streamed through a long, narrow window and Kendra rushed over to it, drawing in great, ragged breaths of the clean, extremely cold morning air, so different from the putrid stench she had endured all night. She sighed with relief.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, as Navarre took her by the elbow and began propelling her up yet another flight of stairs.
"To the tower." His square face was taut with resolve. "It is clean and has a place for a fire. I will bring food to you." He wrinkled his nose. "Or have it sent. Zounds, what a stench you make, girl."
Kendra blushed, then lifted her chin defiantly and stopped in her tracks halfway up the stairway. "It isn't as though I asked to be thrown into that pigsty," she said. "I need a bath."
Navarre glared down at her, but all at once one corner of his mouth twitched and a slight smile crossed his stern features. "Aye," he said, "that you do."
"You could use one yourself," she said, tossing the now leaden mane of hair back with as much impudence as she could muster, then drew in a quick breath as the hard gold of his eyes softened to liquid fire.
"Aye." His husky voice slid across her shattered nerves like a soothing balm. "That I could."
For a moment she thought he might smile again, then the sternness returned to his lips, but the heat did not fade from his gaze.
"Come," he said.
"Where are we going?"
One dark brow arched upward. "Why, to take a bath."
"Both of us?" Kendra demanded.
This time a true smile stretched across his handsome face and it was a wicked sight to behold. Kendra shivered and wondered again just who was bewitching whom.
"Afraid, my little sorceress?" he asked softly. "Do not tell me you have never bathed with a man."
She opened her mouth to speak but once again Navarre took the advantage. Kendra felt the hot flame of passion course between them as his lips covered hers, coaxing them apart, burning into her with a fire that was almost painful in its intensity. She moaned aloud and felt Navarre's arms tighten around her, his own breath catch in his throat as he suddenly released her and took a step back, almost stumbling down the stairs. Kendra reached out to steady him and he stared down at her hand on his arm, a dazed look on his face.
"All right, witch," he whispered, his golden gaze flashing back to hers. "This time we will finish what you began in the crag, but this time it will be you who are ensorcelled and not Navarre de Galliard."
Chapter Six
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Navarre led Kendra to the bathhouse, a building the sheriff had devised for the specific purpose of always having warm water available when he wanted to take one of his daily baths. People in the village whispered among themselves about Garrick's preoccupation with cleanliness. If he had been a commoner, he probably would have been accused of witchcraft.
Most of the villagers seldom bathed, except perhaps in the heat of summer when the bathing was actually secondary to swimming. Those of higher standing bathed more regularly, but to bathe every day, and especially during the winter months, it was unheard of and invited death, on that everyone in Nottingham agreed. Navarre was amused by Garrick's obsession but enjoyed an almost daily wash himself. He and the sheriff had learned new customs during their tenure in the Holy Land, new customs and new horrors.
Navarre shook the thought away. Of course, bathing often in winter was something he had not yet braved, but an occasional bath was a pleasure he now looked forward to. And yet he knew it wasn't the thought of that particular pleasure stirring his senses as he escorted Kendra into the building.
A large room, Garrick had designed it well, with one large, oval tub sunken into the flooring. A hole had been dug for the wooden tub to fit snugly below the surface of the ground, devised with a quite revolutionary device that allowed the tub to be drained daily and fresh water pumped in. Garrick had designed the tubes that carried the water to and from the tub, and the blacksmith had made the tubes from bronze. One tube was connected to an outside cistern where rainwater was caught. The tube brought the water from the cistern into the building where it flowed into another, smaller cistern. There it was heated, then pumped by a servant into the tub. The other tube took water away from the tub, taking it under the building and out into an open field nearby. The sheriff had seen one in Rome during his travels, and had vowed to build one himself someday. John had approved and even dipped into his own pocket to help pay for the expensive extravagance.
Torches ensconced around the walls lit the room, but the center of light and warmth was the round fireplace in the middle of the room. The stone chimney went straight up through the ceiling and the hearth opened on two sides, giving warmth to the bathers.
"Kin I assist the lady, sire?"
Navarre looked down at the old woman plucking at his sleeve. She was almost toothless, but her gray hair was clean and combed back in a neat knot at the base of her neck. Respectfully she lowered her eyes as she awaited his response.
Garrick always had someone maintaining the bath. It was an extravagance John often complained about, but he loved the baths himself and his objections never lasted long.
"Yes," Navarre said at last. "She must be bathed to be presented to the sheriff and Prince John."
The woman began peeling the layers of filthy clothing off of Kendra who opened her mouth as if to protest, then snapped it shut and glared up at the knight.
Navarre stood, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, and watched as the servant disrobed his prisoner. His gaze locked with Kendra's and silently he dared her to object. A flicker of response flashed across the blue eyes and her chin lifted in challenge as she allowed the woman to complete her ministrations. In a matter of moments Kendra stood completely naked before him.
Navarre felt the now familiar fire kindling inside of him and found himself unable to look away from her. A sheen of perspiration broke out across his brow that had nothing to do with the warm water steaming up below him. She was lovely, there was no other word to describe her. Breasts, soft and full, were the color of fresh cream, with peach-colored centers and a smattering of freckles scattered across her chest. Her waist was small, with lush hips complementing her ample bosom, and a triangle of fiery red hair stark against the paleness of her skin.
Navarre began to tremble. Their brief, almost frantic attempt to couple in the crag had not afforded him this view of his seductress. She continued to gaze up at him, as though she, too, felt mesmerized by the mysterious force drawing them together.
"Here, love," the old woman said, breaking the moment, "just step down here in the nice warm water." She took Kendra by the hand and helped her into the tub. Kendra went in wordlessly, still looking at Navarre. "And you, my lord," the attendant said, "kin I help you undress as well?"
Navarre didn't answer at first, didn't take his eyes from the auburn-haired woman. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. He watched the outrage form in Kendra's eyes and could no longer contain the smile that flashed across his lips. The old woman didn't bat an eye as she pushed him down onto a nearby stool and slipped his tunic over his head. When she would have removed his braes, however, he stopped her.
Tess Mallory - Circles in Time Page 9
