"The truth is that I love you," he said, moving his fingers slowly across her jawline. "And I vowed that I would never love again. Everything I love, withers. Everything I touch, dies."
"That isn't true," Kendra said, taking his face between her hands and speaking fervently. "Why do you think I threw myself at you that first day—just because you were tall, dark, and handsome?"
Navarre frowned, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You do speak most strangely," he said.
"Well, okay, it was partly because you were tall, dark, and handsome." She caressed his inner thigh lightly with her fingers, enjoying the way the gold flecks in his eyes darkened as she did. "But it was more. I didn't realize it then, but I know it now. Your heart called to mine, Navarre, across time and space, your heart called to mine."
He shook his head. "You have witnessed the violence inside of me, were almost its victim. I cannot take the chance that someone else I love will die because of me."
"Tell me about her," she said, rubbing her head against his chin, her legs tucked beneath her, "Tell me about the woman you think died because of you."
With a sigh, Navarre smoothed her hair, then ran one hand through his own. It was late and the moon had risen. In its light, Kendra studied his features, amazed to see the vulnerability there, softly etched in the usually harsh lines around his mouth and eyes. Gently she brushed the back of one hand across his check. Without turning he took her hand and brought it to his lips.
"It is a long story," he said after kissing each of her fingers. "One only Garrick knows, and Richard. It reveals my hidden shame."
"Do you mean, your treason against Richard?"
He dropped her hand and nodded. "Aye. The reason that I turned my back on the man who was my friend and my king."
The sound of a twig snapping behind them made Kendra whirl around. The leaves on small bushes moved slightly with the cold breeze that chilled them. Navarre, too, had turned, his golden eyes searching the forest.
Kendra realized, with a sudden jolt, that she had been missing from camp almost the whole night and no one had come looking for her, not Robin, not Marian, not the guards, no one. Tiny prickles of uneasiness crept up the back of her neck as she gazed around at the darkened glade. If any of Robin's men came upon them now, Navarre would become their prisoner. In spite of her own feelings about what he was attempting to do, Kendra knew with all of her heart she didn't want Navarre to be captured.
"I think we should go," she said. "It isn't safe here and—"
"No." Navarre stilled her movements, taking both her hands in his, drawing her close to him once again. "This I must tell you first. There must no longer be secrets between us."
Kendra inhaled sharply. No secrets between them. Could she—dare she tell Navarre the truth now?
"It was in Outremer, during the Crusades."
"Outremer, that's the holy lands, right?"
Navarre nodded. "They are called that as well." He bent his left knee and balanced his arm across it, his gaze fixed on the midnight forest. "I was Richard's friend, his bodyguard, in fact. I always rode at his side, ready to protect him from danger. Garrick was one of his trusted advisors and the three of us were as close as brothers." He glanced over at Kendra. She placed one hand on his forearm.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
"There was a woman called Talam." One jaw muscle tightened in the moonlight. "She was the daughter of an obscure merchant who bought and sold merchandise to us without his sultan's knowledge. She was no one." Navarre's throat trembled as he swallowed hard, then lowered his gaze. "I loved her."
Kendra waited for him to continue and when he didn't she squeezed his arm softly. He looked away, his eyes fixed on some distant point in time.
"Richard hated her. She was an infidel and he could not understand how one of his men, his knights, could fall in love with such a one. Bed her, yes, that he understood, but not love. Garrick tried to intercede for me, but he came back from a long talk with Richard and told me that the king had said if I took her back to England and married her, he would strip me of my knighthood and my titles. I would lose everything I worked so hard to obtain."
He moved away from Kendra's gentle touch and sprang to his feet. Muttering an oath, he stalked a few feet away, and clad only in his leggings, stood glowering out at the silent trees. Kendra sensed that she must give him time to deal with the emotions of his tale, and she sat quietly, waiting for him to speak.
"We came to Acre," he said at last, "a great fortified city that took many days to conquer. I was sorely wounded in the battle and taken with many others to Crete to recuperate. Unconscious, feverish, I didn't even know where I was for many weeks. When Garrick came to get me he told me I almost died." He turned back toward her, his dark hair almost silver in the moonlight. "I wished I had. For he also told me that Talam was dead." Navarre shook his head, as if the thought of the news once again bewildered him. "At first, I thought she had been killed in the battle, and I blamed myself that I had not protected her."
Kendra stood at his words, feeling his pain as though it were her own. Moving to his side, she stood motionless until, with a suddenness that surprised and moved her, Navarre jerked her into his arms and buried his face against her hair.
"But she didn't die in the battle," he said, his arms holding her like a vise, pressing her body into his, his voice muffled. "Richard gave Saladin, the leader of the Saracens, an ultimatum—surrender, or watch the people of Acre die, every man, woman and child. He took them and—"
"Don't." Kendra pushed away from his embrace and placed one hand softly against his lips. "Don't torture yourself. I remember reading about it. Richard massacred them."
Navarre stared down at her. "You read about it? Where? Wait, you say can read? Oh, yes, you are a scribe, I had forgotten."
"Yes, I—never mind—I know how the story goes. Talam was one of those killed?"
"Richard made sure of it," he said bitterly, turning away from her. "Even now I see her face, at night, in the daytime, when I tried to kill you—" He spun back around. "Perhaps God allowed her to stop me. Don't you see? She is dead because of my love—because I was unable to protect her. And what if I had listened to my own superstitions or to Garrick? What if I had—"
"But you didn't."
His eyes narrowed. "I could have, more easily than you imagine. Never forget, Kendra, that I am a soldier." He moved toward her and Kendra shivered as his voice caressed her name for the first time. She stood, conscious all at once that she was naked except for his cloak draped around her shoulders. "I am not a soft-voiced gentleman who knows how to woo and court," he said, walking toward her slowly. "And I, like Garrick, am used to taking what I want. I am no nobleman. I am Navarre de Galliard, bastard, nothing more."
Kendra saw the raw need in his eyes, the almost savage need to wipe the past from his mind, to exorcise the pain of what he had just revealed.
"I am not afraid, Navarre," Kendra whispered.
He took a step toward her, and involuntarily she took a step back. He laughed, but the laughter did not reach his eyes.
"Are you not?" he asked.
Kendra swallowed hard as the knight continued to move toward her, one slow step at a time. Like a lion stalking his prey, she thought, wondering why she continued to back away when she longed to take him in her arms and once and for all dispel the demons. It was his eyes, she decided, as her back met the smooth bark of a tree. She stopped abruptly, unable to move farther.
His eyes were no longer those of Navarre but a predator; he was no longer her lover, but a man haunted by ghosts and driven by revenge. He stopped inches away from her and Kendra's heart began to pound, her breath growing shallow as he slid one hand down the center of her chest and with the other tilted her face upward.
"Will you love the Black Lion as you have loved the man, Navarre?" he said, his voice low and harsh.
"Yes," she whispered.
Kendra gasped as Navarre pressed her back
against the hard, smooth wood of the tree behind her, his mouth coming down roughly on hers, bruising her skin. His kiss was demanding, powerful, and completely barbaric. She tasted her own blood but made no sound. He did not ask for her response, he took it, ravaging her mouth, his hands moving with the same roughness as his tongue over her bare skin. Kendra cried out in fear even as she felt the passion he commanded rising inside of her.
She closed her eyes against the sight of his feral countenance as she struggled against dual monsters, fear and passion, Navarre and the Black Lion. He wanted her to blame him, to agree with him that he was evil, at fault because of Talam's death, that he could easily have been the instrument of her death as well. Yet, at the same time, he wanted her to absolve him, and wipe away the pain with her body. And she would. She was no longer afraid.
Navarre tore his mouth from hers and grasped her chin between rough fingers. "Open your eyes."' She obeyed. "Now do you fear me?" he demanded. "Now do you know that all I touch must be forever spoiled, forever scarred?"
"No," Kendra whispered, threading her hands through his dark hair and pulling his mouth close to hers. "No. Your touch gives me joy and your love gives me life. I love the Black Lion as I love the man, Navarre."
With a groan, Navarre pressed her back against the tree and sheathed himself in her warmth once again. Kendra felt the wave hit her as roughly as had Navarre's first savage kiss, picking her up and throwing her without mercy into the churning sea of her own desire. Mounting the wave, the passion pushed her upward even as she saw, through half-closed lashes, Navarre's face still twisted as if in pain.
"Say that you love me," he whispered.
"With all of my soul."
With a roar, Navarre carried Kendra out of her body, out of her senses, sending her to ride passion's crest, sending her spinning into a place only Navarre could create, only she could enter, a place to which they journeyed together, in the wake of Navarre de Galliard's tears.
Kendra awoke much later. She blinked, then sat up, startled, unsure for a moment where she was. The forest came slowly into focus along with the sight of Navarre standing a few feet away wearing only his leggings, his back to her. She smiled but the gesture quickly faded as she remembered the decision she had made after the last passionate ride Navarre had taken her on just before dawn.
"Navarre," she called softly. "There is something I must tell you."
"I believe you are not a witch." His voice was oddly strained and Kendra pulled her shift on, then stood and crossed quickly to his side. "But I must have an answer," he said. "I must know the truth." He turned. Both of her cameras dangled from one hand, her bag from the other, his dark brows troubled, knit together. "I have shared my secrets with you. Now it is your turn."
"Yes." Kendra bent to retrieve the rest of her clothing from the ground, keeping her eyes downcast, feeling suddenly awkward. "That's what I want to tell you—my secret. How I came to be here, and why you cannot use my gun—" he frowned at the unfamiliar word and Kendra hurried on "—the weapon I injured you with, to keep Richard from the throne of England."
She glanced up at him. Navarre handed her the cameras and folded both arms across his broad chest, his golden eyes warm, yet filled with caution.
"I am listening," he said.
Navarre sat in stunned amazement as Kendra began to weave a strange and fanciful tale of a magical wind that had swept her from the year 1997 to the year 1194. As her story progressed, his emotions ran the gamut from anger to incredulity to fascination, and at last, to astonishment.
A woman from the future. A woman caught in the forces of God and nature flung backward in time. She told him of a world where men could fly, even to touch the moon and the stars. It was impossible. It was insane. He had told her so and she had picked up one of the small gray boxes, pointed it at him, and before he could move, pushed a button. Thinking it another weapon, he expected another searing pain and jumped in reaction as a strange, soft sound, almost like a cat purring, emanated from the box, just before a square of paper shot out from the bottom of it.
Kendra handed him a hard square of paper and on its surface was a perfect likeness of him. He had dropped it as though his skin had been seared and rose with a roar from the tree stump where he sat.
She had calmed him and then shown him the other box, telling him it made similar "photographs," but of a higher quality. She pointed it at him too, after moving a round circle on the front of it back and forth. The box made an odd "click" and he gazed with interest at the bottom of the box to watch his image appear again. Nothing appeared, however, and she told him those kind of pictures had to be "developed" with something called chemicals. He found himself growing more fascinated with each word she spoke and, with her instruction, peered through the camera as she told him about "settings" and "composition" and something called a "flash." Navarre caught himself, realizing he was swallowing her tale without so much as a question.
"Cease!" He stood, slicing the air with the edge of his hand. "I cannot listen further. My God, have I fallen in love with a madwoman? Kendra, this box that paints my picture—" he stood staring down at her, the question he would not ask in his eyes.
"I swear, Navarre, I am not a witch, and I am not mad," Kendra stamped one leather-clad foot in frustration. She gathered the two squares from the ground and shook them in his face. "I'm telling you the truth. How else would you explain it?" She held up both hands to stop him from speaking. "I know, I know—witchcraft." She sighed, pushing back her tangled auburn hair.
Navarre groaned silently to himself, following the gesture of her hand with his gaze, remembering the perfume of her red-gold tresses, and the way he had wound the cascading length around his hand while they made love, drawing her lips to his. Crossing to her side he grasped her by both arms, shaking her slightly.
"Do you not think I wish to believe you?" he demanded. "How can I? Your tale is beyond sensibility."
"What about your druid lady's prophecy?" she asked, jerking away from him, blue eyes flashing. "Was that sensible? Was it intelligent for you to wait at Avebury for Richard's salvation to appear simply because some old woman said it would happen?"
Navarre stiffened. "At first, I did not believe it was prophecy. I believed it was a clever way for the woman to relay a message to Locksley from Richard. But what I witnessed in Abury had to be a type of magic. It would be foolish to deny it."
"In my world there is a kind of magic, called science. Men study how the universe was created, how it works, what it does. But that kind of magic is simply knowledge, Navarre, the kind of knowledge I'm trying to share with you." She held out both hands to him imploringly.
Navarre pressed his lips together, then released his breath explosively. "Knowledge and magic are not the same. One is of God, the other of the devil."
Kendra turned away, her shoulders slumping with dejection. "What can I say," she murmured, "what can I do to prove that I'm telling the truth? Would you believe me if I told you what happens to Richard? To John? To the whole Plantagenat family?" She turned to face him, a few wisps of hair dancing across the pallor of her face.
"If I told you that Richard will die a few years from now, killed by an archer's last arrow, would that convince you? If I told you John will eventually rule, would that stop you from murdering Richard?" She smoothed the linen of her tunic-like dress with one hand, her eyes lowered. "The camera that made your photograph. Could even a witch do that? What about the gun? Is it like any weapon you've ever seen or heard of? Navarre," she said, wetting her lips, "you must believe me. I am from another time, another place—I am from the future. I lived in a place called New York City, I was married and had a little girl but they were both killed before I traveled back in time. I was a reporter for a newspaper, a kind of scribe. Please, Navarre, please believe me."
Her gaze burned into his and Navarre very nearly looked away, but instead, looked deeper, trying to see into the heart of this woman he loved. There was no evil in her, of that he
was certain, but was there madness?
She moved to stand beside him, wrapping her arms around his waist, gazing up at him. "Do you believe my words of love were false as well? I would never lie to you. Will you believe me?"
" 'Tis a wondrous story to believe, were it but true."
Kendra jumped at the sound of the harsh voice cutting through the stillness of the forest behind them. Navarre moved to put his arm protectively around her, then his golden eyes narrowed and he dropped his arm from her shoulder.
Robin Hood stood in the clearing, a longbow in one hand, the other clenched at his waist, his eyes dancing with anger. Twenty men flanked him on either side. Navarre could see Marian timidly poking her head from behind the outlaw.
"Good morrow, fair maid—or does the term no longer apply?" Robin said with a brief bow in Kendra's direction.
Navarre thought quickly. He knew not how much the outlaw had overheard of her insane tale, but he did know that if Locksley thought Kendra had been persuaded to Navarre's side of things, he would take her prisoner. Better for them both if he thought her affections toward him only a ruse to help Richard. Breathing a silent prayer that she would understand and go along with his ploy, the knight turned on her, his hands clenched into fists.
"So this is why you seduced me, wench! You lure me into Sherwood, leaving me open to an attack from Locksley and his cutthroats."
Kendra stared at him, her mouth open, her blue eyes registering first shock, then fury. Navarre felt his spirit sink. She thought he meant it, that he did not really trust her. In faith, he must tell her the truth later. He could make her understand.
"I did not!" Kendra exploded. "If you don't believe me ask Robin—ask Marian! There was no plan."
"As if I would believe them. At least you were telling the truth when you said you did not harm Marian." He darted a glance at the girl. "Did she? Tell me truly, Marian, and may-hap I will forgive you for your own treachery. The blood on your gown—whose blood was it really? Did you leave it to lead us to the witch or was it to make me grieve and lament your passing—or was it the witch's idea?"
Tess Mallory - Circles in Time Page 18
