"Serfs?"
Calling Roger's employees serfs might be pushing it a bit far. But, when in Rome... "Yes, serfs."
"Surely he commands his own men."
Though she knew Kenric meant warriors, she couldn't help but think of Roger's Board of Directors. Instead of dressed in custom made suits, she tried to picture them dressed like this Kenric of Blackstone, in tunic and leggings. The thought seemed ludicrous.
"Do you find something amusing?" Kenric's deep voice broke into her thoughts, making her realize she'd been staring off into space, a small smile on her face.
"Er, no." She schooled her face in a more somber expression. "Roger has twelve men who are his personal, er, force."
"Twelve." Kenric nodded, apparently approving of the number. "How many of them would he dispatch to search for you?'
Great. Now she'd gotten herself in hot water again. "I think they'd all travel together?" She ventured.
It was her luck that woman were not supposed to understand the ways of men and warfare.
Kenric chuckled, making him look approachable-handsome instead of forbidding-handsome. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like women, proving that no matter what the time period, men didn't really ever change.
"What?" Megan couldn't keep from asking.
"Your Roger would not take all of his men with him to search for you. He would split them up, have them travel in different directions."
So much for that. Standing, Megan breathed the frigid air deep into her lungs, wishing she could get rid of the ever present sooty reek of the smoke from their fire.
"All we have to do," Kenric stood also, stretching in a way that made his muscular torso seem to ripple, "is find one of your Roger's men, if not he himself."
Transfixed, Megan couldn't help but stare, her mouth dry. She'd never seen a man more beautiful, more ruggedly attractive. It took her a moment to realize that Kenric had spoken. What had he said? Something about finding Roger. Roger was the last person she wanted to find. But the way to Roger was the way home. Did she really want to go home to her empty, sad life?
"Good." She muttered through numb lips. Her breasts tingled. God, she hadn't known a man could affect her the way this man did. Sexual attraction wasn't everything, but it sure didn't hurt.
"We will ride in the morning."
This got her attention. "Ride? Like that huge animal over there?" She pointed to his horse, wondering what he'd say when he learned she'd never been on a horse before in her life.
He laughed again, obviously thinking she was kidding. "My war horse will not hurt you. Unlike most others of his kind, he is gentle and a good friend. He can easily carry twice my weight."
Looking at the massive animal, she didn't doubt it. She decided not to tell him of her lack of equestrienne skills. Maybe she'd luck out again and he'd simply assume it was one of the problems with her being a woman.
Still, she'd wished she had her car.
"One other thing." Kenric folded his massive arms across his chest. "When we leave here, you will become a boy."
"A boy?"
"Yes. Dressed in my clothes," his gaze traveled the length of her, making her burn, "it shouldn't be too difficult."
Great. So he thought she looked like a boy. Glancing down at herself, clad in the too large leggings and huge, shapeless tunic, she supposed she couldn't really blame him. Especially since he was most likely used to women in the ornate, formal gowns of his time.
"Your vassal?" She asked.
After a startled look, he through his shaggy dark head back and laughed.
"Perhaps I missed it." He said, the amusement making him look ten years younger - and ten times more handsome.
Megan tried to clear her brain. It seemed to get a bit foggy whenever she looked at him. "Missed what?"
"When you swore your oath of allegiance to me."
Ok, so maybe vassal had been the wrong word. She searched her brain, trying to remember what the correct term could be. "Sorry. I was only trying to help."
At his brusque nod, she gave a sigh of relief, watching as he went to where he'd heaped his belongings. After a moment, he pulled out a long leather scabbard, carrying it almost lovingly to the fire. Even she, as ignorant of medieval things as she was, recognized it for a sword.
Slowly, he withdrew it, the metal blade sparkling in the cracking firelight. Megan couldn't help it - she stared.
When he noticed her, he held it up so that the point faced the roof of the cave. It looked wickedly sharp, yet oddly beautiful. She wondered if Kenric would take offense were she to touch it.
"Yes, it is mine." His deep voice seemed to echo in the small cave, reverberating with a fierce pride and what she thought might be sorrow.
"It's magnificent."
He seemed to accept her words as due homage. Lowering the blade, he began to polish it with a soft cloth, his large hands moving lovingly over the sharp steel. "It belonged to my father, and his father before him. It was to have been my older brother's, had he lived."
Megan felt a twinge, wondering what it would feel like if those capable, long fingered hands touched her skin that way.
"Does it have a name?" She was hesitant to ask, but felt relatively certain that she remembered this much from books. Or maybe only Kings and Princes named their swords.
Kenric did not seem to find her question ridiculous however. Sheathing the sword, he carried it back to its place against the wall before answering.
"It does." Turning, he considered her, his eyes molten with reflected firelight, yet dark with his own memories. He looked like some Pagan warrior, capable of slaying dragons and carrying distressed maidens off to safety. Capable too, of breaking that same maiden's heart.
She would do well to remember that, even if this was only a dream.
"I cannot tell you the name." He gave a huge sigh, coming back to the fire and taking a seat alongside of her. "For you to know the name gives you power over it. I keep forgetting you have injured your head, or you would know this. I will not tell you the name, but it means thunder."
Thunder.
Now it was she who felt restless, she who felt compelled to move from the warmth of the fire and pace the confines of the cave. Kenric sat too close, and though he could not know it, the temptation to touch him ran hot in her blood.
"The name suits you," she ventured.
He frowned, obviously not liking the comparison.
"And the sword, of course." She tacked on hastily, at his grimace.
There was a wry twist to his sensual mouth. "Though I am but a bastard, great care was taken in naming me."
A bastard. In times like these that title carried so much more painful baggage than it did in her time.
Times like these. Did she really believe that? Unless she was the recipient of some bizarre, mind-altering drug, she had no choice.
"One more thing," he said casually, flexing his long-fingered, calloused hands before him, "I am done with fighting. I would not like to kill again, even for you."
Kill? Conscious that her mouth had fallen open, Megan closed it. Great. One thing she did remember from her admittedly scattered reading about medieval times was that the men, both bandits and knights alike, were bloodthirsty. And she was stuck with a man who wouldn't defend her. Or, she amended, wouldn't kill for her.
Hey, this was good. Really. This was a sign of maturity, of civilization. Summoning a smile, she nodded at the big man who watched her silently, waiting.
"That's okay with me." On impulse, she grabbed one of his outstretched hands and squeezed it, noticing how different the hard, calloused fingers were from Roger's smooth, manicured hand. "I wouldn't kill for you either."
Startled, he yanked his hand away. Fire flared in his eyes, the heat quite different from that of the flames that
warmed them. "Do you mock me?"
So, the male ego had not changed at all in nine hundred years.
"Of course not." She soothed, wish
ing she'd kept her mouth shut. "I made a joke, er a jest."
He seemed to accept this, stalking once again to his saddle bag and withdrawing their dinner.
They broke bread, again partaking of the odd tasting, dried meat. He had some wine, sour and sweet at the same time, the taste of it metallic on her tongue. Drinking it helped ease some of her nervousness at the approaching night. Would he hold her again?
She shivered. Though he'd behaved like a gentleman, she knew her own wayward thoughts had been less than ladylike. The sooner she could get away from him, the better. But for now she needed him to help her search. Not for Roger, as he thought, but for the gateway to her time. She had to get home, back to the twentieth century where she belonged.
CHAPTER FOUR
Watching her, Kenric wondered if he'd imagined the look of contempt in her beautiful eyes. If she despised him, he could not blame her. All women had a right to expect a man that would defend them.
Not that he wouldn't, he simply did not plan to kill again if he could help it. And, as long as he was the only one who knew she was a woman, he should not have to. No one ever bothered lowly squires. As a boy she was safe. Now, if only he could make his body forget the truth of it.
Thoughts of the coming night had his blood pounding heavy and slow. He wondered if he should hold her again, wondered if she would want him to, wondered if he dared.
When she came back inside, shivering from the cold, all caution left him. Holding out his arms, he waited until she was nestled snugly against him before lying back on the saddle-blanket. Now he had but to prove that his mind could control his body.
She sighed, shifting once, then relaxed. The fire burned low, the dim orange glow making nameless shadows dance on the cave walls.
Gradually, her shivering stopped as their bodies generated heat. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the floral, feminine scent of her. A strand of her hair tickled his nostril; he brought his hand up to push it away. Somehow he found himself caressing the silky smoothness of her boyishly short hair.
Her breathing caught. Kenric found himself straining to hear her take another breath. When she did, it was a harsh one, low and very nearly a moan. His body responded instantly, and he cursed under his breath.
Still, he did not move his hand.
With another half sigh, she relaxed into his massage. Eyes closed, she arched against him, a sleepy kitten under his fingers. The thin blanket shifted, his gaze went to her breasts and his breath caught in his throat. Her nipples were large, hard like pebbles, inviting the touch of his hand or his mouth. If she moved again, she would know how she affected him.
He wanted her beyond all reason.
Yet she was the intended bride of this Roger, the man who would, for her safe return, gift him with his heart's desire.
Land. He must remember that Roger would not take kindly to Kenric deflowering his woman.
He forced himself to think of the land, always the land. There would be other women. There would not be another chance like this.
Reluctant, his body straining against the front of his
braes, Kenric deposited her gently on the blanket and pushed himself to his feet. He kept himself turned away from her, not wanting her to see his arousal.
"Kenric?" Her voice sounded low, husky and sensual. "Where are you going?"
Though he knew he shouldn't, he could not keep from looking back over his shoulder at her. The firelight flickered over her tousled hair. She had the look of a woman badly in need of a man.
In disbelief, Kenric felt himself grow harder. Shaking his head, he headed out the small cave opening into the blowing snow and icy air.
Later, much later, cold and disgruntled, he returned to find her asleep. Disdaining the warmth of the shared blanket, he picked a spot on the opposite side of the fire.
Though he tried, sleep eluded him that night. The ground felt uneven and rocky, the smallest stone irritating his skin. Though he'd slept on this same ground a hundred times, though he'd bedded down in worse places, he could not get comfortable. Infuriating for a man, dangerous for a warrior. And he knew it was all because of this irrational, burning desire for a woman he could not have.
He had his gear packed and the war horse loaded before she woke.
"Morning." She muttered, stumbling outside with her eyes half closed and the ridiculously thin blanket wrapped around her instead of his warm cloak. He wanted to chide her, but thought it more prudent to hold his silence. If he kept things on a strictly impersonal level, it would be better off for both of them.
When she returned, he kept his back turned, checking the supplies once final time. With his white coat gleaming despite the shaggy winter coat, the war horse snorted, antsy, ready to go. He knew how the animal felt.
"What's the horse's name?" Her soft voice came from right behind him, nearly making him jump. He cursed under his breath. Until late, no one had been able to sneak up on him unawares. More proof that it was time to retire his sword.
"He has no name." Kenric sounded more harsh than he intended; even his horse shifted sideways. He glanced at her - a mistake, he knew instantly. Though she'd finger combed her dark hair, her cat's eyes still looked heavy with sleep. She blew a short gust of air from her lips, drawing his attention to her mouth. Her lush, full, kissable mouth. Heat flashed through him, making him remember the raw, sensual taste of her.
"No name?" She laughed, reaching out one slender hand to touch the animal's thick neck. "Did you just get him?"
Setting his jaw, Kenric tore his gaze away. "I've had him for years." Since the day he'd found his family slaughtered, most dead, his father dying in the bloody, deserted keep, and the war horse starving in his stall.
She fell silent, perhaps astounded by the fact that this animal that he so obviously valued had no name. When she spoke again,it was to ask a question that he should have anticipated.
"Why haven't you named him?"
Because he wasn't sure he could articulate the reason and because the less she knew of him and his life the better, he chose not to answer.
"The sun rises." He told her instead, pointing to the
gradually lightening cave entrance. "It is time we ride."
"Do I have duties?"
Kenric blinked, wondering what she meant, knowing she had not meant anything like the erotic thoughts that immediately came to mind. "Duties?"
"Yes," Megan drawled, her tone the exaggerated drawl all women used when they believed they spoke with limitless patience for the slowness of men. "What, exactly, does a squire do?"
Despite himself, he had to smile. "A squire serves a
knight. Takes care of his armor and other things. Usually, you would have your own horse, though a palfrey, not a beast of war."
She bit her lip, looking small and defenseless and less like a squire than anyone he'd ever seen. Protectiveness welled up in him, horrifying him. This desire to protect was what he sought to escape. Especially since he knew he would ultimately fail, just as he'd failed to save his family.
Her tentative touch on his arm brought him out of his reverie. "Are you all right?"
"Fine." With a brusque nod he clasped her around the waist, lifting her to the broad back of his horse. To her credit, she made no sound, though her entire body might have become wood, so stiff did she hold herself. His hands seemed impossibly large, spanning her tiny waist. Suddenly he, a man fast on his feet, known as lightening with a sword, felt unbelievably clumsy, oafish even. To her he must seem a veritable giant.
And she only a small female alone, weak and defenseless.
He wondered if she realized how lucky she had been, that he and not some Marcher Lord had found her. Or another hired sword, one with no honor. There were many men like that. In these parts, honor was in short supply.
With a start he realized he still held her and jerked his hands away. She watched him from beneath her lashes, her face pale and drawn. In the depths of her gaze he saw something, he knew not what.
> Then recognizing it, chastised himself for not realizing it sooner. Fear lurked there, barely masked. Of him? Nay, for in the next second she glanced at the horse's massive head, biting her lip. She would have to conquer her fear, for they had many miles to cover before they reached the nearest village.
Shaking his head, he mounted his steed, careful not to touch Megan. The war horse, eager to be off, tossed his head and nickered.
"Ready?" Scarcely waiting for her answer, Kenric tightened his calves, the signal to the beast to move. The
horse, sure footed and wise, picked his way among the rocks, increasing his stride when they reached the flat land, still covered in deep, powdery snow.
"Where are we going?"
He pointed to the east, hoping she would not remember from what direction they'd come. "The nearest village is that way. It is to there we go, to see if your Roger has left any men to search for you."
They moved at a brisk walk, the horse's sturdy legs churning up the unbroken snowy whiteness. The cold air, though still, hung heavy with the promise of more snow. The leaden sky held no promise of sun.
And behind him, Megan sat so stiff, so frozen, that if it weren't for her carefully controlled shivering, he wouldn't have known she was alive.
He fell into his own thoughts, letting himself dream of the land that would soon be his.
#
More and more Megan felt guilty for lying to Kenric. Part of her wanted to tell him the truth, but she knew if she did he'd think her insane. She wasn't even sure she wanted to go home, to wake up from this crazy, technicolor dream and find herself in modern day Dallas.
But then she knew she didn't want to stay here, in this cold, barren land, for too long. She'd have to go home.
Without this Kenric of Blackstone's help, she knew she'd never make it. Yet she, who prided herself on being up front and honest, had to secure his help with a lie. Not just any lie either, but apparently his heart's desire. Land. Now how on earth would she pay him off? She didn't know. She only knew that if she found a way, any way, to get this man some land, she would do it. Once he'd helped her find her way home, of course. And maybe she could get him to make sure Roger left her alone as well.
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