"Now." Kenric indicated the fire. "We must rest."
Megan swallowed. "Where?" Wrapping the thin blanket around her more securely, she shivered.
"You may sleep closest to the fire." He spoke in the tone of one granting a huge favor.
She scuffed her foot along the hard, rocky ground and thought of her fluffy, soft bed at home.
"I don't think I can." She told him, her voice small and miserable.
Instantly he seemed to understand the problem. With a wry smile, he brought her his saddle blanket.
"This will give you some comfort. Tis what I use to sleep upon."
"But--" She stared up at this giant of a man, unable to read his expression. "If I take it, what will you sleep on?"
"There is straw that I can spread. The horse can spare it. I am well used to the floor of my cave." He told her, his tone brooking no argument. "Now go to sleep."
Her innate sense of fairness wouldn't let her, though even the coarse saddle blanket looked more inviting than standing and shivering. "I can't let you do that." She told him quietly. "We can share this blanket."
His head came up at her words, his dark gaze pinning her. "Be careful what you say, woman. For all you know, I might take you up on your offer. What then would your Roger think?"
Color flooded her face as she realized what Kenric had thought. "No, I didn't mean like that." To her dismay, tears pricked at her eyes. "I thought we could share the blanket for warmth. Only for warmth."
He muttered something under his breath, something fierce and guttural. Whatever it was, it did not sound complimentary.
"Forget it." She told him, her throat aching. It had all been too much for her and she could be strong no longer. She dropped down on the saddle blanket and rolled in to a ball. She would rather die before she let him see her cry. Covering herself with the flimsy blanket, she swallowed convulsively and let the tears come in silence.
Megan felt it when he moved towards her. Ignoring him, he surruptuously swiped at her eyes and kept her face covered. Unfortunately, her nose clogged and her attempt at a discreet sniffle sounded watery and loud.
"What is this?" Compassion mingled with annoyance in his deep voice. "Why do you weep? Do you hurt?"
He thought she was injured. Fiercely, she rubbed her eyes, glad. She'd rather he thought that than believe she'd given in to a spell of irrational female weeping, as Roger would have said.
"Go away." Though muffled with the blanket, she thought she sounded rather brave. Ok, quivery maybe, but brave nonetheless.
Instead of moving away, or making cruel comments like Roger would have, he crouched down next to her. "Is there anything I can do?"
She shook her head, still keeping the blanket over her face.
With a loud sigh he scooped her up in his muscular arms. Rocking on his heels, he settled on the saddle blanket and pulled her on to his lap.
Megan went instantly, frozenly, still.
Kenric said nothing, just holding her close. She peeked up at him from under her soggy eyelashes. Instead of looking down at her as she'd half expected, he stared into the fire. The dancing amber glow of the flames made him look both ruggedly beautiful and dangerous.
But he was warm and it felt oh so good to be held by him. Gradually, Megan relaxed into sleep.
#
Kenric knew the exact instant the woman went to sleep. Her slim body became boneless and her head drooped against his chest.
She weighed nothing, this tiny woman. She was not large breasted nor curvy like most of the tavern wenches he had known. Yet something about her lit a fire in his blood. Perhaps it was her very defenselessness, or her exotically fascinating face. Though she was not conventionally beautiful, she was lovely nonetheless. And her eyes - those amber eyes of hers hinted at secrets, tempting him beyond belief.
Because he'd given his word, something he hadn't done in years, to help her find her Roger, he was now bound by honor to protect her. Even from himself.
Outside the blizzard continued to rage.
Inside Kenric fought his own battle. How easy it would be to plunder those sweet lips, already parted, while she slept. He knew just how to awaken a woman, with slow, sensual finger strokes and deep, drugging kisses until she arched against him and begged for more.
His body thickened and hardened as he thought of it. Asleep in his arms, the woman lay slumbering, unaware.
Resolutely he forced himself to think of other things. Her Roger would not appreciate a bastard born, hired sword deflowering his intended. Kenric could not blame him.
Megan shifted in his arms, murmuring softly. Leaning close, he breathed deeply of her strange scent, more powerful even than the heavy smoke. The scent of flowers, the scent of spring. And here in his lonely cave with the howl of the wind promising retribution for his sins, he wondered where she had come from.
Morning came with a brightness of light that hurt Kenric's eyes. Somehow, he'd managed to sleep, though little. The brightness of sunlight reflecting off snow told him the storm had finally ceased. That and the utter absence of sound from outside.
Their fire had died down to glowing embers that gave little warmth. Shifting his numb arms, he eased the woman on to the ground, ignoring his morning arousal, ignoring too how she sleepily, greedily reached for his warmth.
Standing, he gathered more dried kindling, and built up the fire. When he finally turned, it was to find her sitting up, wrapped in his ancient blanket, watching him with sleep filled, puzzled eyes. Still, they were the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen.
He would do well to find her Roger and be rid of her. God's blood, he could not remember when he'd last been so tempted. This puzzled him, for he allowed nothing to sway him from his quest. What irony then, that the one thing that made him burn might be the means by which he achieved his goal.
She promised land. Land. In four years he'd thought of nothing else. For much of his life, he had been lucky, a bastard son acknowledged and loved by his father and family. Yet there was no help for the fact that as a bastard he had no claim to their keep, to their herds, to their land. He'd always known he would have to get his own, by whatever method necessary. He'd thought perhaps if he served his father or his half-brothers well, one of them might gift him with a small parcel.
He had not counted on death robbing him of even that slight hope.
And now he had a duty to his dead father, to the brothers who'd taught him to fight and to laugh and to drink. He was the last of the line, the only one whose seed could bring continuance to a proud and noble name. Bastard born,aye. But his children and his children's spawn would be the future.
So he must do his duty, a promise enacted by his father as he lay, some two weeks after the attack, bleeding and feverish. His father had known then that all his right-born sons were dead. He had charged Kenric with the task of fathering the future of the line, given him the sword to seal the bargain.
To raise a family, Kenric must have land. The King had seen fit, in his short-sighted wisdom, to gift the land once belonging to Kenric's father, to another family of noble birth, rather than the bastard son who was unacknowledged.
Land must be obtained by another means.
Now this Megan had promised that her Roger would gift him with some land. Kenric would not have to purchase it with his small hoard of hard earned gold. He would be able to use the gold for other things - to build his keep, to buy foodstuffs and supplies, even mayhap to hire a small army of his own.
So now all that he must do was find this Roger. And, no matter how difficult it might seem, return Megan Potter unblemished, untouched.
He grinned savagely. Put like that, it would be easy.
All of these years then, the blurry, bitter years since he'd learned of his family's obliteration, all these years of fighting for causes he did not believe in, for money that he hoarded and saved, and it had come down to this. One simple deed, one last quest, and his most cherished dream would come true.
He hardly
dared to allow himself to think of it, so great was his elation. For this, he would take her across the
mountains in the dead of winter if he had to. For this, he
would even enter the stronghold of the Welsh, who knew and revered the hated Faerie folk, hoping that her apparent high birthright would afford him some protection.
If all she wanted was to be returned to this Roger, some English nobleman who no doubt searched for her this very moment, he would be happy to oblige her.
Because she still watched him, he contained his glee.
"Where is..." she waved a hand, looking uncomfortable, "the bathroom?"
Kenric gaped at her. "You wish to bathe now, when water turns to ice and there is snow all around us?"
She colored prettily, catching her lower lip between her teeth. "Not bathe. I need to, uh..."
"I don't have a chamber pot." He told her, wishing he did not have to be so blunt but seeing no way around it. "I am always alone in the cave, so I go outside."
"Outside." She darted a glance towards the snow packed entrance. "How deep do you suppose it is?"
God save him from feminine modesty. "I will make a path for you." He told her, glad of a task with which to occupy his unruly body. Grabbing the crude shovel he had made from an old practice shield, he began pushing the snow aside.
When he had completed a tunnel-like path, he turned towards the small corpse of oak trees with their concealing
outcropping of rock. Here he cleaned an area twice as long as his horse, and four times as wide. Once the woman had
finished, he would need to bring the war horse here also.
"Thank you." Wrapped in her pathetically thin blanket, the woman stepped out from the cave. The shiver in her husky voice unnerved him.
Inclining his head in a nod, he moved past her. Inside the cave it felt warm; the small fire crackled merrily. His war horse turned his huge head and nickered. No doubt the beast was hungry. Hay was in short supply, though thankfully he'd thought to pilfer some grain from the keep's stores. He fed the animal, melting some snow in his helmet for water.
With a flurry of movement, the woman returned. She rushed to the fire, holding out her pale hands and shivering so loudly he could hear her teeth chatter.
"You will have to wear my clothing." He told her in a tone that brooked no argument. "Unless you have a gown hidden somewhere." He regarded her hopefully.
"No." Still shivering, she shook her head and flashed a miserable smile. "I have nothing."
Resigned, he went to the back of the cave where he kept a wooden chest. Rummaging inside of it, he found her a heavy tunic and a pair of wool breeches. Watching carefully for her reaction, since it was common knowledge only men of noble birth had such fine garments, he handed them to her.
She did not appear to notice.
"Thanks." Flashing him a wan smile, she pulled the tunic on over her own clothing, then stepped into his breeches. Of course, they were too large, so he handed her a length of rope to use for a belt.
When she'd finished rolling up the cuffs, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and faced him. "What now?"
For a moment Kenric could not find his voice. Though the tunic was several sizes too big, fitting her more like a gown than a shirt, the way she wore it made him think of sleeping chambers and tousled covers. He forced his gaze away, looking instead at the fire as if he might find all of life's mysteries in the dancing flames.
"Now…" Choosing his words carefully, Kenric kept his voice level and emotionless. "You must tell me of this Roger. If I am to take you to him I need to know where he lives."
"Far away." She answered quickly.
Much too quickly, he thought, searching her face. "What is the name of the place?"
This time he meant to catch her in the falsehood. Well he remembered the name she'd given him, speaking as if the place was some country rather than town. I'm American, she'd said, though he knew of no such place.
Before she even opened her mouth, he knew she meant to lie. Like a small child caught stealing sweets, she couldn't even meet his gaze. Then she mumbled something so low under her breath that he couldn't hear it.
"Where?"
She raised her head. He felt a jolt when her huge amber eyes met his. He could swear he saw defiance in the set of her small chin, the flash of her gaze. "Dallas, Texas." She'd told him that before. The first word sounded vaguely Roman. The second, he knew not what to make of it. The woman lied, of this he felt certain. But why? She wanted to find this Roger, did she not?
He, Kenric of Blackstone, meant to find this Roger too. Quickly, so that he might claim his promised reward. He would have the truth, even if he had to force it from her.
Intending merely to threaten her, he moved towards her. At his sudden movement, she flinched, as though she expected him to beat her.
"You think I'm lying." The fearful misery in her expression stopped him as effectively as a sharp sword. What kind of man did she think him? Did she truly believe that he, a warrior, would actually strike her?
He forced himself to remain still, so as not to frighten her further. "Aren't you?"
She made a restless movement with her hands, shifting herself away from him. "No, I am not. But I think the place I come from doesn't exist, at least not yet."
More nonsense. He must remember that she'd somehow injured her head. "I see."
"No." Her tone was sharp, echoing in the confines of the cave. "You don't see. I am farther than mere miles from my home. God!" She shook her head, the motion sending her hair flying wildly. "Now I'm even talking like you."
"Calm yourself." Taking her arm, he guided her to where his saddle blanket still lay, spread on the ground near the fire.
"Come, sit and have some bread. You will tell me all you know of this Roger."
Reluctantly, Megan allowed him to lead her over to the fire. She didn't know what to do. He wanted to know about Roger, but anything she could tell him would seem like the ravings of an insane lunatic. Roger drove a silver Porsche 911, lived in a tony North Dallas house, and preferred to have his suits custom made. He loved football, especially the Dallas Cowboys, and enjoyed finding small ways to torment her. Lately he graduated to bigger and bigger torments. The last time, he'd given her a black eye and a broken rib when she'd refused to change her will, making him her sole beneficiary.
The thought sobered her instantly. Maybe she was better off here, for now. Safer, at least. She'd been a fool to think Roger would let her break their engagement. No doubt he would kill her if she returned.
She shivered. She was safe, for now. Right now Roger had no idea where she was. He'd been walking toward her, the sky had been that particular Texas shade of brilliant blue, then bam! She'd been transported somehow to the winter in some godforsaken place, attended to by a Conan the Barbarian look-alike who honestly believed he lived over nine hundred years in the past.
It was hard to decide which was worse.
This Kenric meant to help her find Roger. Though in truth she had no desire to ever see her former fiancee again, this task was all she had to keep Kenric with her. Perhaps somehow, he could arrange it for her to return home. Though how, she wondered, was he going to take her across time? Yet she knew if she mentioned that little fact to him, he would truly believe her mad.
At this point, she wondered it herself.
"I am waiting." With the tone of a man used to being obeyed, Kenric spoke. Still, he made no move to hurt her, reminding her that not all men were like Roger.
"Roger." She said, thinking back to what little she knew of medieval culture. If she remembered right, it was not uncommon in those times for a bride to know little about her husband before the wedding. She could use this, make it work for her, because what she knew of Roger she couldn't tell this man. He'd never understand.
"Roger is wealthy." She told him firmly, deciding to tell as much of the truth as possible. "I have known him all of my life."
Kenric cocked his head,
his gaze considering. "And what value does he place on you?"
It took her a moment to realize what he meant. "He loves me very much." She said, gagging on the lie. She felt a pang of sorrow for the fool she had been.
Raising her eyes, she found Kenric watching her.
"What is it?" His voice, though soft, seemed edged with steel. "What brings such fear and sorrow to your face?"
Startled, both by the way he'd been able to read her so correctly, and that he even cared, Megan swallowed.
"Nnnothing."
For the space of a heartbeat she thought he'd insist she tell him, then he simply nodded and waved one large hand. "Go on then."
Roger. She'd been talking about Roger.
"He's tall." She tried to think. Yes, Roger was tall, though not nearly the size of this giant. "Slender. And he has blonde hair."
At Kenric's blank look she elaborated. "Hair the color of wheat. He is an important man. Others listen when he speaks."
"I care not what he looks like. Tell me of his holdings."
Holdings? Oh, he meant land. Of course. But how did she explain the concept of twentieth century Dallas to this man? "The land he holds is important."
"To whom? The King?"
She noted the sudden sharpness in his gaze. Uneasy, she shifted her weight on the blanket. "I don't know the English King."
Kenric's handsome mouth twisted. "But you know of him."
Wondering what he would say if she told him in her time that a Queen, rather than a King, sat on the throne in England, she shook her head.
"Not really." Heck, she had no idea even what monarch had ruled England in 1072. King William, he'd said.
Roger. She needed to get back to familiar ground, back to talking about Roger. What else could she say?
"Roger employs many people." Thousands, at last count.
"Employs?"
She did a rapid translation in her head. "I mean rules."
This time he looked more than skeptical, he looked disbelieving. "Then these people of his must all be out looking for you. Combing the countryside, especially if this Roger of yours commands it."
"He doesn't have an army." Megan shot back, pleased with her quick thinking. "These people are mostly workers."
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