In the Kingdom's Name (Guardian of Scotland Book 2)

by Amy Jarecki

  She held her breath, trying to stay her chattering teeth.

  “Come into the light,” said a deeper voice.

  Blair?

  Her pulse sped.

  Skimming the balls of her feet over the craggy surface, she rounded the bend and stood at the entrance to the big cavern, bracing her hand against the wall.

  “Lord have mercy,” a young man said, staring at her legs.

  “Robbie?” she asked. Goodness, the sandy-haired lad had grown nearly as big as William.

  John Blair held up his sword with a sneer. “Satan, get thee from me.”

  Backing, she glanced down at her legs and cringed. Bloody hell, over a dozen hungry eyes gaped at her. “Does anyone have something I can use to cover up? It seems I’ve arrived a bit over dressed.”

  Blair snatched a blanket and tossed it to her. “A bit under dressed is more apt.”

  She tugged the musty wool around her shoulders. Ah yes, the acute odors of the—now—fourteenth century. Warming ever so slightly, she regarded the men’s swords, still leveled at her midriff. Funny, they didn’t make her jittery at all. Perhaps she’d mellowed after eight years. “If you’ll be so kind as to sheathe your weapons, I could use a pair of shoes as well.”

  “Bloody hell, woman.” The overzealous priest shoved his enormous sword into the scabbard hanging from his belt. “Where did ye come from, and why in God’s name did ye stay away for so long?”

  “I…” She chanced a glance around the cave. Where is William? “I tried to come back for years.” And now that I’d finally accepted my fate, I’ve suddenly appeared. Why the hell didn’t I give the medallion back to Walter when I saw him at the reception?

  John Blair hadn’t grown any more welcoming during her absence. If anything, his face was gaunter, more foreboding.

  But Robbie on the other hand—he’d turned into a man. Tall, ruggedly attractive, shiny blue eyes, shoulders as broad as a horse’s rear end. “Och aye, Miss Eva. Willy pined for ye something awful.”

  She rubbed her outer arms. “As I did for him.”

  “Then what happened?” demanded Blair.

  She shifted her foot to the side, regarding the latest Louis Vuitton style—sinfully high heel, pointed toe—a slip of black leather. Everything she wore oozed twenty-first century. “You’d never believe me. William didn’t at first.”

  Blair nudged Robbie’s arm. “Go tend the fire. I want to have a word with her ladyship.”

  Eva folded her arms as the priest neared. “Where is William?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  Her gaze shot to the alcove where he slept—had slept with her at one time. Furs covered the entrance like they had nearly a decade ago. “I believe he’s the reason why I’m here.” Surely he must be somewhere near.

  “Ye think so?” He backed her down the passageway.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t travel through a time warp to seek forgiveness for my sins. There are plenty of priests who can offer me absolution in the twenty-first century.”

  “Blasphemy!”

  “No. It is the truth.” She glanced down at his sheathed sword, then met his gaze. “Why do you think I’ve suddenly appeared wearing clothing not of this time?”

  “Wearing the devil’s garb. Ye are disgraceful.”

  She crossed her arms tight over her gabardine jacket, huddling under the blanket. “My clothing is of the best manufacture in my time.”

  Lunging forward, Blair pinned her against the stony wall, his forearm across her throat. “Willy said ye were from the future.” His eyes narrowed. “How do I ken ye’ll not put a hex on him?”

  Gulping, her knees started to quiver. If I show weakness I’ll lose his respect. “Did I ever do anything to harm him before?”

  “Och, he pined for ye something awful—never forgot your bonny face. Damnation, I ought to burn ye.”

  She refused to shift her gaze away from his penetrating stare. “Father Blair,” she said, stressing her modern Edinburgh accent. “I have no idea why I am here, but something in my heart tells me William Wallace needs me.” In a bold move, she pushed against his shoulder. “Is he in the alcove?”

  The monk’s eyes shifted.

  Shoving her way out of the priest’s trap, she started off, but he grabbed her wrist and squeezed. “Ye hurt him again, and I’ll hunt ye down and carve out your heart myself.”

  She yanked her hand away. “I see you haven’t lost any of your charm.” She flung her finger toward the center of the cavern. “Now, I will forgive your boorishness if you find me a more suitable pair of shoes before I break my ankle on these stilts.”

  The man grumbled something imperceptible under his breath, but then continued to follow her. “Can ye heal him?”

  Eva stopped. “He’s ill?”

  “Wounded in battle.”

  “Jeez. Why didn’t you say something when I first arrived?” Clutching her purse, she kicked off her shoes and sped for the alcove.

  ***

  Pulling the furs aside, Eva’s hand flew to her tingling chest. Turning upside down, her stomach fluttered with a gazillion butterflies. Her knees buckled, made worse by the swooning of her head. She’d been in shock before—swore she didn’t want to come back. Not now. Now when things would… Shaking her head, her entire body trembled as she regarded the sleeping form stretched out atop a pile of furs.

  Lord, he’d aged. Deep lines etched the corners of his eyes and made furrows from his nose to where they disappeared beneath an unruly auburn moustache and beard. Still mahogany brown, his hair had not a wisp of grey. Regardless, his face was drawn, a bit gaunt and pale.

  Eva glanced over her shoulder. “How long has he been unconscious?”

  “A day,” said Blair.

  She crawled inside. “Bring me some ice from outside—and clean rags.” After sliding her bag from her shoulder, she set it on the ground. “Where is Brother Bartholomew?”

  “Gone,” said Blair, his voice trailing off.

  “What happened to him?” Eva loved the little monk.

  “Died of consumption on the return trip from Rome.”

  Eva gasped, her heart clutched into a knot. God, no. “I-I’m sorry. He was…um…I liked him.” She had to keep it together. How many others had perished during her absence?

  Seeing William unconscious—being back in Leglen Wood was like stepping into a nightmare. For so many years she’d ached for him, cried herself to sleep, angry that their time together had been cut short. But now. Did she want to be here?

  Hell, no, no, no, no, no.

  She knew what was coming.

  Death.

  The most hideous, painful, humiliating, barbaric death ever imagined—the brainchild of an insane king, Edward Plantagenet. Her flittering stomach squelched and threatened to heave.

  Blair didn’t budge. “Why, may I ask, do ye need ice? Is it not cold enough already?”

  Eva had nothing to hide from the priest—not anymore. The medallion needed to send her home. Besides, Blair already thought her a heretic or worse. “You said he’s been unconscious for a day?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, he most likely has a concussion. Ice is to help decrease the swelling of his brain—if he hasn’t suffered brain damage already.” In addition to keeping a first aid kit in her purse, she’d taken first responder classes with St. John’s Ambulance—in the days when she was sure she’d end up traveling back to William. She might be a bit rusty, but the knowledge she’d gained was a damned sight more than she’d had the last time she’d visited medieval Scotland.

  Blair slapped his hand through the air. “Ye dunna make a lick of sense.”

  “To you, perhaps not, but if you want him to wake, I’d suggest you stop lingering and fetch me the ice.”

  “Ye havena quelled that barbed tongue of yours, I see,” Blair grumbled, dropping the curtain. “Pushy wench,” carried through the shroud.

  And you haven’t mellowed your grumpy, opinionated attitude.r />
  Alone, she scooted toward William’s head and tested his temperature with the back of her hand. “At least you’re not fevered. But you’re awfully pale.” The friction from touching him made goosebumps rise across her skin. Her fingers trembled. “I’ll tell you here and now, I cannot possibly stay.”

  William didn’t move, though a puff of air whistled through his lips.

  Eva’s gaze slid down his body. Wearing a dirty linen shirt encrusted with blood, a plaid covered him to his waist. “Do you have any other injuries?” Wet blood seeped through his sleeve at his left shoulder. Untying his laces, she peeked beneath. “Jesus Christ you’ve been pummeled. What? Did they just shove you in here and leave you to live or die?”

  Her pulse racing, she reached into her purse and pulled out the first aid kit. The jagged wound looked as craggy as the Grand Canyon. Hit with a mace? Lord only knew. Medieval soldiers carried all manner of weapons meant to maim.

  She snatched a pair of shears and cut the shirt right down the middle. Pulling it away, the fabric stuck to his wound. Carefully she cut around it. “Robbie! Bring me some boiled water,” she hollered. Hopefully the lad remembered how important it was to keep things clean.

  “Still harping on about hot water?” After some rustling, he popped his head through the shroud, holding a tankard of ale in his fist. “It’ll take a wee while to set a pot to boiling.”

  “All right. I’ll put that ale to use in the interim.” She waved him inside. “Did you know his shoulder was this bad?”

  “I havena seen him since we slid Willy in the alcove.” Wariness filled his sideways stare as the lad handed her the pewter tankard then scratched his bearded chin. Lord, Robbie had grown up. “Och, he looks foul.”

  “Wait until I pull the cloth away.” Eva drizzled the ale atop the linen, praying the alcohol in it wouldn’t provide too much of a shock to William’s already weakened body.

  Robbie grimaced. “Do ye have to do it now?”

  “If not, the wound will fester.”

  After letting the ale seep in and moisten the cloth, Eva slowly tugged it away.

  “Ssss,” Robbie hissed. “He still looks as if he lost the battle with the lion if ye ask me.”

  Panning her gaze from the gnarled wound down the puckered scars across his chest, her gut turned over. “My God.” She glanced at the lad. “Lion?”

  “Aye, King Philip wouldna give Willy a letter of passage until he fought the lion—with his bare hands. Killed the bastard, too.”

  A cringe stretched the corners of her mouth while she examined William’s mangled flesh. “But not until the big cat got in a few nasty swipes of his own, I see.”

  Robbie nodded, his gaze falling to her open first aid kit.

  She snapped the plastic container closed. “Thanks for the ale. I’ll take it from here.”

  He glanced up—his expression guarded as his teeth grazed his bottom lip. “Ye’ll help him will ye not?”

  “I’ll do everything I can.”

  Then his gaze swept to her legs. “Bloody hell. Is that your skin?”

  She tugged the blanket over her stockings. “Do you think you can find me some suitable clothes?”

  He knit his eyebrows as if considering.

  “Please, everyone will be calling for me to be burned if they see me like this.”

  His mouth twisted. “I’ll see what I can find—not too many tailors in the wood.”

  “Thank you.”

  He again looked to the kit. “What…?”

  “Please, Robbie. Don’t ask.”

  The lad shook his head. “’Tis probably best.”

  No sooner had Robbie left when Father Blair showed up with a handful of chipped ice and a few rags—dirty ones at that.

  With no time to haul them to the burn for a good scrub, she wrapped the ice in the cleanest and held it out. “This isn’t going to last. Can you fill a bowl with ice?”

  “Bloody hell, woman. I’m not your squire to order about.”

  She looked up with a pointed glare. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, father. Can someone fetch more ice? William could die…” But she knew he wouldn’t. Right? Is this why I’m here? What if I refuse to help him? The medallion warmed against her chest for the first time in eight years.

  Except, this time it didn’t give her the same panicky effect. This time her throat thickened as she considered her options. Then the worthless lump cooled as fast as it had warmed.

  Heal him and get the hell out of here.

  God, yes.

  The priest let out a noisy sigh and dropped the furs. “I’ll fetch more ice, but this is the last time. ’Tis colder than a year of Januaries out there.”

  “Thank you,” she called after him.

  Beside her, William moaned.

  A gasp caught in her throat. Would he wake soon? How should she act when he did?

  Holding the ice between her palms, she studied him. Lord, he might be weathered and worn, but even unconscious, he made her blood stir. The mere sight of him brought on every emotion she’d ever experienced from joy to terror.

  For years Eva had pined for this man—hid from the world with her medieval castle project. Everything she had done was an attempt to be closer to him—closer to them. Through the ages their souls were irrevocably connected by love—a love more powerful than the medallion or Father Time himself.

  But would William still feel the same?

  All she wanted to do was throw her body atop her lover and bawl—tell him how much she’d tried to come back—yet tell him she couldn’t possibly stay. Regardless of the feelings she had for him, their love no longer mattered. Staying with William now would kill her—take her insides and rip them into tiny shreds.

  No possible way. Not this time.

  Nurse him back to health and get the hell out of here.

  “William?” she whispered, applying the ice to his head. “Can you hear me?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  William shivered. Something hard and cold pressed against his throbbing head. Water trickled. A warm cloth swirled over his chest and under his arms. Lord, his shoulder punished him like someone had bludgeoned it with a pickaxe—mayhap someone had.

  Heaven help him, the myriad of sensations addled a poor warrior’s mind. A miserable pounding in the head—a shoulder that felt like it had been run through with an iron spike…combined with the most soothing bath…

  Mm. Bless it, the gentle hands caressing him must be those of a woman. He inhaled. An unusual scent—strong but oddly clean.

  A woman?

  For eight bloody years one woman had consumed his thoughts. A woman lost to him.

  His heart jolted.

  Jesu, the scent. I’ll never forget.

  He tried to open his eyes. “Eva?” The question sounded like a hoarse whisper. And why did her name have to always be on the tip of his tongue? Merciful madness, he was daft. He’d thought about the lass every waking moment since that dreadful day when he’d lost her and Andrew. God save his idle cock, he hadn’t looked at another woman in eight years. Hell, he should have taken his vows rather than accept the guardianship. He was more suited to life as a monk. Mayhap he’d be tending a garden at Melrose rather than hiding in miserable caves.

  The swirling stopped with a feminine gasp. “William? Are you awake?”

  In a rush, his heart well-nigh leapt out of his chest. His eyes flew open—Miserable hell, he couldn’t focus. “Eva? Is it ye?” Blinking rapidly, he tried to sit up.

  “Shhhh. Easy,” she cooed with a soft, lulling voice. “I’m here. I’ve been sent to help you.”

  Giving in to her gentle palm pressing against his chest, William lay back and slid his tongue over dry lips. “I never thought—”

  “I know.” She smoothed lithe fingers over his forehead. “I’d given up hope—and then poof. Without warning, I awoke outside the cave in a snow drift.”

  Chancing another peek, his vision grew clearer. Oh, and such a vision—one worth e
nduring a decade of hell. “God’s teeth, ye are more beautiful than ever.”

  Leaning over him, long red tresses skimmed his chest. She smiled. William’s heart stuttered—could it really be her? “Eight years older,” she said. Aye, ’twas Eva’s voice for certain.

  “Och, I’ve aged as well.” He reached up with a trembling finger, aching to touch her to see if she was real. “But ye—ye havena aged a day.”

  A flicker from the fat-burning lamp danced in her green eyes. “I’ll say you’re still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen—even if your body is scarred beyond all imagination.”

  He looked down and frowned. “I suppose the lion in France did the most damage.”

  “Robbie told me.”

  She pointed to his throbbing shoulder. “I think you must have been hit with a mace. Whatever it was turned your flesh into mincemeat.”

  He looked—a pure white bandage covered the wound—it didn’t hurt too badly either. “I must be coming good.”

  “Healing. Though I won’t say you’re out of the woods yet.” She adjusted the cold compress atop his head. “You have a severe concussion.”

  “Och, there ye go, using your odd speech,” he teased. But he loved it, could listen to her twists of phrase for the rest of his days.

  She pursed her lips looking like she was trying not to grin. “Are you thirsty?”

  “More parched than salt in the sunshine.” Heaven help him, he wanted to pull her atop his body and smother the lass with kisses—but it had been so long. Though smiling, she seemed coolly distant. And what had she been doing the past eight years?

  His gut twisted.

  Had she married?

  Eva reached for a tankard and spoon. “I have some watered wine. It’ll give you strength.”

  He watched her ladle a wee bit. She had changed. Aside from growing her tresses down to her waist, she was more poised—mayhap less excitable. He blinked in succession. Without a doubt the years had increased the woman’s beauty.

  Growing more beautiful with age is something only achieved by a sorceress for certain. But Eva is no witch. She proved that to me a hundred times over.

  The brew slid over his arid tongue and down his gullet. Lord, sipping made him even thirstier. “More.”