by Amy Jarecki
William took the armor piercing sword from amongst her things. “I never did teach ye how to use this.”
She smiled—the memory of his face when he’d given it to her was priceless. “It’s a whole lot lighter than your two-handed sword.”
“Aye, but with a great sword a man doesna have to move too close to his opponent to lop off his head.”
She grimaced. “How charming.”
His shoulder ticked up. “’Tis the way of war.” He twirled her pointy blade in his hand, then set it down. “I’ll give ye a lesson on the morrow. It’ll keep me from going mad whilst the lads are off on their raid.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Again,” William growled as if he were speaking to one of his men.
Eva groaned and lunged, thrusting her little sword forward.
For the umpteenth time, he twisted her wrist and disarmed her.
She stamped her foot and clutched her arm against her waist. “Ouch. That hurts, goddammit.”
“Ye must block your mind to the pain. When ye’re in the midst of battle, there’s no time to think—or feel. Ye must rely on your training.”
“Well, I’m not intending to fight anyone.”
“If ye remain around me long enough, ye’ll need more than a sharp tongue, mark me.” He beckoned her with his fingers. “Now come again—aim for the loins, or the throat, the eyes—any place not protected by mail.”
Eve crouched and eyed him. She’d had about enough sparring for a lifetime. If he’d showed a modicum of patience at first, she might not feel like stabbing him in the eyeball right now, but he’d done nothing but act like an asshole since they started. She had to be insane for even thinking about lunging in with her sword again. He’d just grab her wrist and twist until the damned thing dropped.
Unless?
She bit her bottom lip.
His fingers twitched as he stood opposite, poised for her next attack.
When she’d played basketball for NYU, the way to the basket was by faking out your opponent. Eyes, foot position, momentum, a turn of the head—body language spoke volumes about the ball-handler’s next move.
She stilled her gaze and focused on his feet, imagining a basket behind William’s head. With her next breath, Eva faked right, spun backward on her left foot. Raising the blade, her head snapped around and set her sights on his exposed neck. Cold iron hissed through the air.
Time slowed.
Then her heart flew to her throat.
Impact became imminent.
Where was William’s block?
Just as the blade met with flesh, he jerked aside. A steely grip clamped around her wrist and twisted—but the pain didn’t come. William grunted and grabbed his shoulder.
“Ballocks,” he spat.
Eva looked at her hand—Lord, he hadn’t disarmed her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” He stood straight with a grimace. “Come again,” he barked.
She lowered her arms to her sides. “Your injury hasn’t healed enough for this.”
He shook his head with vigor. “The only way to recover is to work through the pain.”
“Oh no. You might have a tear—and the only way that will heal is rest. You must do nothing that makes it hurt.”
“Och, then I may as well be dead, ’cause I canna move without suffering torment from old wounds.”
“That’s awful.”
“’Tis the way of it.” He beckoned her with his fingers. “Come, now.”
Ignoring him, she slashed her sword diagonally through the air. “So, was I better that time?”
“Ye’re learning.”
“But all you’ve had me do is come at you.” Her feet danced like a boxer. “What about technique?”
“Ye need to learn how to hold on to your weapon afore I can teach ye more.”
She grinned. “Then I was better.”
“Come again,” he growled.
Eva performed the same maneuver again with much the same results. William grabbed his shoulder and winced.
No matter how much he wanted to be healed, he clearly wasn’t ready to spar with anyone. Even a novice like her. Eva moved toward the cave. “I’ve had enough sparring for one day. I’ll heat some water for hot compresses.”
The big man crossed his arms. “I dunna need your mollycoddling.”
“Did I say the compresses were for you?” Turning up her nose, she headed off to find a bucket. William mightn’t think he needed her help, but he’d receive it all the same.
***
How she convinced him to remove his shirt, he’d never know. He didn’t want to be pitied by anyone. If she’d shown a modicum of interest in him as a man, he’d feel a damned bit happier about his state of undress, but since he’d kissed her, she’d scarcely looked him in the eye.
Hot compresses? Ballocks to that.
She used a pair of tongs to pull a cloth from the simmering water. Then she wrung it out. “Tell me about the pain in your right shoulder—from fighting the lion, was it?”
“Aye.” William reached back and rubbed the spot that always needled at him. “The bastard’s claws cut me deep. It has never been the same since—weaker. I’ve had to rely more on my left.”
She traced her finger along the deepest scar, pressing fairly. “Does this hurt?”
He winced. “Has your touch grown rougher over the years?”
“Sorry,” she said, cringing.
“Can ye fix it?”
“Afraid not.” She eased his pain with feather-light swirls of her finger. “I should have studied medicine during my absence.”
“Ye mean ye havena?”
“Not as much as I should have.” She placed the warm cloth over the sore spot and rubbed—much more gently this time. “So the lion incident happened four years ago?”
“Five.” He glanced at her face. “I suppose the scars of battle canna even elude me.”
“You’re five and thirty—and have been a warrior most of your life.” Her hand stilled. “What do you expect?”
Closing his eyes, William rolled his shoulder and reveled in her kneading fingers. “Everyone grows old. Most soldiers dunna make it to thirty. I suppose I’m fortunate.”
She picked up the tongs and fished another cloth out of the pot.
“So what of your time?” he asked. “What does a man do when he’s past his prime?”
She didn’t look up whilst she wrung out the cloth. “Do you consider yourself past your prime, William?”
“At five and thirty? Och, aye—and I’ve two mangled shoulders to prove as much.”
She draped the cloth over his left.
William hissed. The sutures she’d made were itchy and still angry sore. “Ye didna answer my question,” he said through clenched teeth.
She busied herself with the tongs again. “To be honest, a man at five and thirty is still in his prime—as is a woman.”
What was this future world where people aged so slowly? Were they protected in cocoons of silk? “What say ye? Are there no warriors?”
“There are soldiers who join the army—and they learn combat, but most of the fighting is done…” She glanced aside.
“Pardon?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
He snorted. “The fighting is done by banshees and fairies?”
She threw back her head with a belly laugh. “Now that would be a good name for a video game.”
“Jesu, I ken ye’ve lost your mind.” Since she’d returned, she was using even more twists of phase that made not a lick of sense.
“I’m sorry.” She slipped a hand over her giggles and shook her head as if trying to stop her laughing hysterics. “I’ll try to sum it up—most of the fighting happens in the Holy Land, just as it has for thousands of years, and sometimes men fight face-to-face, but usually not…um…Have you heard of black powder?”
“Aye—heard tale of it when I was in the Holy Roman Empire. ’Tis said it is from the Orient—’tis
like fire and brimstone.”
“Yes, I couldn’t have been more accurate if I had tried to describe it for you. But in the twenty-first century—and well before, men have learned how to make devastating bombs with such concoctions—bombs that can wipe out an entire city like Edinburgh.”
“Or London?” he asked.
“Yes—and wars are fought more with bombs. In fact, sword fighting is only a sport.”
He studied her face—it twitched not a bit. “Ye’re serious?”
“Why would I not be?”
He stared at the fire for a time mulling over all she had said. “In your time, when has a man passed his prime?”
“I don’t know—perhaps sixty, I’d say.”
“That old? Then how long do people live on average?”
“I should know that off the top of my head, but it’s not unusual for a person to live into their eighties, even their nineties. Jeez, people usually don’t retire until they’re sixty-five.”
“Five and sixty?”
“Excuse me, five and sixty.” She tapped a rock with her toe. “I’m afraid my Auld Scots has gone a tad rusty over the years.”
William watched the firelight dance across her red tresses. He liked that she’d grown her hair long during her absence. The locks hung in thick waves all the way down to her waist. He flicked a curl with his finger. “I’m glad ye didna cut your hair.”
She clasped her hand around the tresses at her nape and drew the length to her opposite shoulder. “I should replace your compresses.”
She’d been with him for days and had only grown more and more distant. He grabbed her wrist. “What’s ailing ye, Eva?”
She looked his way with a hitch to her breath. He recognized the fear in those green eyes. But something inside William’s gut told him not to push her. “Ye’re not used to living around so much death—never have been.”
She shook her head.
“’Tis good to ken people of your time live long lives.” He gripped his fingers a tad tighter. It was as if she were building an invisible wall between them. Was their precious time together fleeting? Most likely—just as it had been before. What could he say to tell her it would be all right? What could he say to convince her to leap over that wall and love him for the now? That’s what they’d always agreed. “Perhaps all the sacrifices made by men in my time help the lives of their descendants?”
This time she nodded. “Every era brings more advancement.”
“I am pleased to ken it.”
They sat in silence while the fire crackled, sending swirls of wood smoke through the air. So many times he’d wanted to hold Eva in his arms—her memory saw him through the depths of melancholy whilst he berated himself for the deaths of his men at Falkirk—it seemed so long ago he’d heard her soothing words on the wind and knew she loved him as deeply as he loved her. That same love gave him strength to endure a year in the bowels of King Philip’s dungeon after the French king refused William’s request to send troops to defend Scotland.
Even though her voice had stopped coming to him.
And now that she sat beside him, it seemed they were still separated by different worlds. “What happed to live for the now?” he finally asked. “Ye ken things in my world are brutal and the devil follows me like a shadow.”
“I—” She turned green like she might heave up bile.
“Dunna try to tell me it willna happen. In your time, perhaps a warrior can live a long life, but I ken my days are numbered.”
She looked up abruptly. “How do you know?”
Something squeezed in his gut—his hunch just might be right. “What good am I if I canna wield my sword—fight for the weak and oppressed?”
“As I recall, you wanted to become priest—why not seek a life behind the walls of an abbey?”
“Do ye think Longshanks will sit idle whilst I take my vows?” William tossed another stick of wood on the fire. “Nay. I carved my path years ago.”
With a heavy sigh, she reached for a long stick and poked the flames—he’d never known the lass to be so short of words. That something troubled her was an absolute certainty.
William intended to find out—and make it right. Surely she didn’t come all the way from the future to pay him no mind. “What happened to ye—all that time away?”
“Not much.” Her shoulder ticked up. “After I realized the medallion would no longer work for me, I wrote a book, won a few awards, and then set to restoring the Torwood Castle ruins.”
“Torwood is a ruin?” He’d never forget having taken refuge there—it was the last time he’d felt Eva—spoken to her in his dreams—the most devastating eve of his life. “Writing a book and building a castle. And ye won awards? Those are not simple feats.”
“No. I kept myself busy…so…”
“So?”
“So I wouldn’t think of you,” her voice ebbed to a whisper.
He lightly brushed her shoulder. “Ye didna stop thinking of me?” The hair on his arms stood on end.
She shook her head.
He leaned near enough to inhale the intoxicating fragrance that could only be Eva. “And now, why are ye fighting to suppress your feelings for me?”
She drew away slightly, but he heard her wee gasp. “Did I say I was fighting?”
His little finger brushed the tip of hers. “Ye didna need to say it, lass.”
She looked at him with fear in her eyes. He’d seen that look before—every time she regarded Andrew Murray before he died. He knew it.
“I can’t,” she said.
William traced his finger along the curve of her slender neck, studying the blue vein thrumming with life beneath her skin. “Ye mean ye willna.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Too bottled up with her warring emotions, Eva was almost glad to see John Blair’s face—until he opened his mouth. “The English are hot on our trail. I hope ye’re fighting fit, Willy, ’cause we must make haste.”
William sprang to his feet. “How much time do we have?”
“Not long—an hour at best.”
Eva grabbed her “medieval-looking” satchel and stuffed in her first aid kit and purse. Her modern clothing wouldn’t fit. She clutched her stilettoes against her chest.
William peered over her shoulder. “Ye should toss those stilts on the fire.”
She’d paid five hundred pounds for that pair of shoes. God knew it wasn’t easy to find classy size elevens.
Robbie rolled up his gear in his pile of skins. Of course. Quickly, she did the same, saving her shoes and medieval clothes in the roll.
It took no time for the men to pack up their belongings and tie them to their saddles. The only problem? Eva didn’t have a horse.
William patted his saddle. “I ken it will annoy ye to ride double with me, but it doesna appear ye have another option.” He reached for her gear and used a leather thong to secure it atop his.
Riding double? How much more torture can I take? She stepped up to his big warhorse. “You’ll give me a leg up?”
He bent down and cupped his hands. “Ye remember how to ride?”
She put her foot in his makeshift cradle and hoisted herself into the saddle. “If it’s anything like a bike, I should be fine.”
“A what?”
“Never mind.”
Eva hoped she’d be fine—hoped she could block her annoying pangs of desire until William sidled behind her and took up the reins. His brawny arms surrounded her in a protective cocoon. The allure of raw, spicy male swam over her—the only male who’d claimed her heart since Steven’s death. Yes, she’d been young and in love with her first husband, but that love amounted to little in comparison to the love she harbored for William.
No matter how hard she tried to push him away, his soul called to her. His crystal blue-eyed stare, his alluring deep burr, his ruggedness. Licking her lips, she glanced down at the forearms in repose on her thighs, the big hands holding the reins. Peppered with dark hair, pink scars slas
hed in random directions and rose in contrast to lightly tanned skin.
Eva’s lips parted as her mouth grew dry. She knew exactly how gentle or brutal those hands could be. Indeed, she’d never experienced a gentler touch in the bedchamber—a more capable or caring lover.
She slowly traced her finger along a scar between his thumb and pointer finger. “How did you get this?”
“Och, ye expect me to remember every time I have a wee cut?” the deep rumble of his voice vibrated against her back.
She tapped the pink flesh. “This one’s deeper than the others—I suspect it caused you a great deal of pain.”
His hips shifted behind her. “It did.” His voice sounded gruff. He did remember.
“Oh,” she whispered.
“Falkirk.”
Goosebumps sprang up across her skin.
He needn’t say more. The Battle of Falkirk was the worst loss in Scotland’s entire history as far as Eva was concerned. And William was the man deemed responsible, though several nobles had accepted bribes to change sides in an attempt to ruin him.
“Ye may as well sit back, lass,” he whispered in her ear. “We’ll be riding all day.”
Eva glanced over her shoulder and regarded his face. Lord, she shouldn’t have done that. The man was riding for his life and he could still smile like he hadn’t a care in the world? Could grin and mask all the pain coursing beneath his skin? How did he do it day in and day out, without a Fiji vacation?
“If ye keep looking at me like that, I’ll have no recourse but to take a quick detour into a quiet glen.”
“With Comyn’s men on your heels?”
One dark eyebrow arched. “Well, it would have been a bit more convenient if ye’d have joined me in the alcove.” Then he raked his sexy gaze down her body. “Ye ken ye were meant to be with me. Ye may as well stop fighting that which is in your heart.”
She crossed her arms and sat ramrod straight. Jeez, he could be maddening. Worse? He was right. How much longer could she resist when every time their gazes met, her stomach somersaulted a dozen times? What of the now? Before, she’d convinced herself that all that mattered was the now—until she’d endured eight years of loss. And now she had no illusions. She would lose—if she didn’t die first.
