by Amy Harmon
Kellen’s smile widened. It was the first time he’d felt alive in months. The first his spirits had lifted since his wife’s death. Tristan, breathing hard, ran at him and they took up the fight again, swords clashing, metal sliding, muscles straining. Kellen snickered at Tristan’s obvious frustration. “Tired?”
“Nay, curse you, you puny, beslubbering wretch.” Tristan hacked like a novice with his sword. “You infectious bunched-backed haggard. You cold-hearted miscreant.”
Swords clashed a few more times, then Kellen slid his sword around Tristan’s, metal slipping against metal, disarming the man. Kellen kicked Tristan’s feet out from under him, and set the tip of his sword against his throat.
Breathing hard, Tristan pounded the dirt with a fist, gulped in air, and finally smiled his usual gamine grin. “Have I mentioned I admire such qualities in you?”
Kellen laughed again and backed away. “Many times.”
Sir Owen groaned, threw up his arms, and turned away. The men moved back to their training.
Tristan threw Kellen a dark look as he surged to his feet and quickly retrieved his sword. “Not so many times as all that.”
“Again?”
Tristan took up his stance and Kellen circled.
Kellen understood the point his men were trying to make. He’d been irritable, bad-tempered, and impossible to live with. Mayhap they’d all needed a good tussle to clear the air, and if it had the added benefit of keeping him from brooding, so much the better.
It had been almost eight months since his wife’s death, and he had yet to wait another five weeks for his new bride to arrive. Corbett had already moved the date back twice. Would Kellen declare war on the Corbetts if they didn’t bring their daughter this time? He was considering it, but wasn’t sure he had the stomach for the deed. But he needed an heir and, to his mind, they owed him one.
Two of his foster boys came running, breathing hard, excited. “My lord, someone is on our property. We can see them from the top of the gatehouse.”
Kellen and Tristan both stepped back, checking their swords. Kellen ignored the fact that the boys had been where they should not. Their fascination with the murder hole was understandable, but dangerous just the same. “Scottish?”
One of the boys, Lord Marlowe’s son, eyes gleaming, shrugged and shook his head. “I do not know, my lord. ’Tis too far away.”
Grimly pleased, Kellen smiled. A real fight was exactly what he needed to take his mind off his problems. He turned to his men still training on the field. “Mount up.”
Excited whoops were followed by a quick scramble toward the stables and, minutes later, Kellen rode out, his men behind him. They quickly made their way through the village, across a vast, wet field, and closed in on the cemetery where a group of riders huddled together. Kellen was disappointed to see it was just his neighbor, Sir Robert Royce, and some of his men.
Tristan, now riding beside Kellen, remarked, “It’s that pox-marked, fly-bitten, eye-offending lout, Royce.”
“I can see that.”
But there was nothing offensive about Royce’s looks other than he’d been born pretty enough to be female. As lads, they’d been companions, taking their training together, fostering with Lord Wallington. But Kellen’s fighting ability caused awe and admiration among their lord, others, and finally the king. That, in turn, caused jealousy on Royce’s part. No doubt it hadn’t helped that Kellen and the other boys had once forced Royce into a gown.
Eventually all had been forgiven and they’d fought side by side in several battles, at home and across the ocean. Afterward, Royce tried his hand in beating Kellen at several tournaments, but of course, had as little luck as any other against him. They’d grown distant in the last few years, and even more so when Lord Wallington died on Royce’s watch, something Kellen could never quite forgive.
“Does this mean we don’t get to fight?” Tristan asked.
Kellen considered. Mayhap they should take this opportunity to rile Royce. Lax as ever, the idiot did not even see them coming, as he and his men looked at something on the ground. They were laughing and Royce appeared vastly amused. Kellen, curious, signaled for his men to spread out.
Royce and his followers finally turned at their approach, and Kellen saw a girl in their midst. She was in a state of partial undress, wearing short breeches that formed to her figure, and in no way hid a beautiful set of legs, and a tunic so tight, it concealed nothing of her body.
If she’d been trying to pass for a lad, she’d failed miserably. She was attractive, curvy, and blonde as his wife had been. Her long hair tumbled about her shoulders.
Fear was evident in the girl’s face, but the beauty’s fists clenched and unclenched and she looked ready to fight. One of the villagers? Kellen hadn’t seen her before and would have surely remembered if he had.
Royce’s men quieted as Kellen moved in, looking between Royce and the girl. “What is happening here?” Kellen asked, his mild tone apparently not putting anyone at ease as their expressions remained wary.
The girl answered before Royce had the chance. “These men are scaring me. They won’t back off. I just want to get back to my car. Could you please help me?”
Not a villager, then. Her speech was strange, but Kellen was able to sort through her words and understand most of them.
He looked around for a nearby carriage, but was unsurprised when he didn’t see one. With spring barely over, flooding had washed the road out in several places, and it wasn’t yet dry enough for cart nor carriage to travel on.
He addressed Royce. “Why are you and your men on my property? Who is this girl?”
Royce lifted his chin. “Some of my livestock went missing, and we were searching out the thieves when we came across the chit.”
“You were thinking to find your cattle on my land?” Kellen’s words were smooth as silk. “Are you making an accusation?”
Royce went still for a moment, then smiled slowly, that smirky lifting of lips that always made Kellen want to punch him in the mouth. Or stick him in a dress. “Of course not. I simply think the thieves used this route. Scottish, no doubt.”
Tristan and Sir Owen moved forward to get a better look at the girl. “She does not look Scottish,” said Sir Owen. “But you never know. As weedy as your cattle are, perhaps she’s hidden the beasts behind her back?”
Kellen’s men laughed. Royce’s did not.
The girl raised a hand to her forehead as if dizzy, and Kellen froze. As impossible as it seemed, the ring she wore looked to possess the Corbett emblem.
Off his horse in an instant, Kellen quickly covered the ground between them, grabbed her arm and lifted her hand. She hit him in the chest with her free fist, but he barely noticed as he studied the ring.
There could be no doubt. The Corbett coat-of-arms, a raven in flight, glinted bright and clear in the sun. Kellen would know it anywhere, having endured Corbett’s insulting missives of excuse in past months, the raven seal always seeming to mock him.
He quickly looked about, but saw no other knights, near nor in the distance, only Royce’s. Could Corbett’s men be hiding? He turned to Sir Owen. “Search the trees.”
Had Corbett simply dumped her here? Was he afraid to face Kellen? Did he truly fear Kellen’s wrath enough to leave his daughter to make her own way to the castle? To leave her vulnerable to attack? It was cowardly and insulting to them both. Kellen had always respected the man in the past, but no more.
Kellen studied his bride’s face. Edith was her name, if he remembered aright. She was lovely, with blue eyes exotically tilted at the corners and fringed with lashes as dark and thick as any he’d seen before. At least her features were nothing like those of her sister. She was even more beautiful, but in a completely different way. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” Her eyes widened when he tugged a blanket off his horse and wrapped her in it, noting the cut at her chest and knee, as well as the way her finger was bleeding as if someone had tried
to steal the ring from her.
His anger raised a notch. She’d obviously been abused. It was yet to be determined to what extent. He grabbed her up and lifted her onto his horse before hoisting himself behind her.
“Do you have a phone I could use?”
Ignoring her strange request, he wondered just when Royce’s men had arrived. Had they taken her clothes? Defiled her? He could feel his skin heating at the thought.
He turned to Royce. “If my betrothed has been injured in any way by you, or your men, you will pray for death before I am done. I vow it.”
In the stunned silence that followed, Kellen turned his horse toward the castle. He ignored Royce’s stammered protests that he’d only just come upon the girl, and took comfort in the realization that the men had all been seated on horses. Only the girl had been upon the ground. With a rising sense of protectiveness and satisfaction, he pressed her stiff body closer to his own. He would guard and defend what was his. And she was his. Indeed, he held his future in his arms.
Chapter Three
What the heck was going on?
Gillian, stiff, chilled, and clutching her backpack, sat in front of the knight, silently scared out of her wits. She wasn’t sure what had just happened, and trying to make sense of everything was giving her a headache.
First she’d been chased by hoodlums.
Then they’d suddenly disappeared and she’d been faced by a bunch of different men on horseback. Medieval hoodlums.
Now she was on a huge horse, sitting across hard muscled thighs, wrapped tight in a knight’s strong arms and… and what? He’d saved her? Or claimed her for himself? She wasn’t sure. But if she’d gotten it right, he was the good guy here. Or was that simply wishful thinking on her part?
Now they were headed toward a village that she knew darn good and well hadn’t been there a moment ago. Was she going crazy?
Huts with thatched roofs, close and in the distance, dotted the countryside. The buildings hadn’t been there before. She would have seen them, and certainly she would have noticed all the people milling about. There was no way she could have missed them.
Gillian shivered as the knight’s heat penetrated her back, and he held her a bit tighter like she was a prized possession. She felt claimed and couldn’t help another shiver. She had to stop letting her imagination run away with her. She was going to ask for an explanation, in just a minute, after she wasn’t so intimidated by the scary guy at her back.
Gillian stared up at the castle beyond the village. Strong and rugged, it looked a whole heck of a lot like the one she’d been drawing except for the teeny-tiny little fact that it wasn’t a ruin in any way, shape, or form.
Perhaps there was another castle close by and she’d been taken there? Had she gotten turned around and somehow been moved to another location? Had she passed out? She had no memory of any of that. None of this made any sense. One minute she’d been standing near a deserted ruin, prepared to fight for her life, the next… here. That fast.
She couldn’t help but notice the guy holding her in his arms was also dressed as a knight. Could she have fallen in with some sort of medieval reenactment group? Had they started ad-libbing when she’d shown up? Was this some sort of joke at her expense? Or was it a dream? As they rode on she looked back, searching for her car.
Nothing.
Was it over the hill where she couldn’t see it? Had it been stolen by one of the guys who’d been chasing her?
Taking a breath, Gillian gulped back impending hysteria. This was all going to make sense in a moment. She finally allowed herself to look up at the knight and promptly lost what was left of her breath as she exhaled in a rush.
He’d pushed back his chain mail coif allowing her to clearly see his fierce expression as he returned her gaze. She swallowed and forced herself to breathe again. He wasn’t exactly handsome, as his nose was slightly crooked and had obviously been broken at some point. He also sported scars on his forehead and cheek. But he was striking, heart-poundingly sexy, and very masculine. In a word, magnificent.
She resisted the impulse to reach up and touch his tanned face, his high cheekbones, or his thick black hair, just to make sure he was real.
His gaze was intense, his eyes the warm color of amber, and the contrast to his hard features was startling. Her glance lowered to his massive shoulders, thick with muscle, and she swallowed again and cleared her throat.
“Do you think you could you take me back to my car?” Her voice came out breathless, and she cleared her throat again and laughed nervously. “I’m still kind of shaky after what happened, so I’d appreciate a ride.”
The knight stared down at her for a long moment. “You have no need of a carriage.” His deep voice rumbled, his harsh accent wrapping itself around her in the cool afternoon air. “I am keeping you.”
Gillian laughed shakily.
The knight didn’t so much as crack a smile.
“Ah, okay. I can walk.” Gillian looked down. She was in some sort of trouble here. She knew it but just didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know much of anything at the moment.
“You will stay.”
Okay, the guy was scary, but that comment irritated. “Like a dog? I don’t think so.”
“You will.”
Should she try and slip off the horse and make a break for it?
As if reading her intentions, or perhaps the way her body had tensed at the thought of jumping off the huge animal, the knight’s arm tightened again holding her in place effortlessly. Perhaps that was for the best. She could break a leg or two jumping from that distance.
Turning her head, her gaze slid to the men who’d surrounded her earlier, now riding in the opposite direction, and then to the graveyard. The location and layout were the same as the one she’d run to earlier: but everything else was different and new--pristine headstones and wooden crosses where there’d been none before.
The knight’s large hand reached out and pulled her head back against his chest, forcing her to face forward again. Okay then. Sitting stiffly, and not looking up at him, she tried her best to ignore the guy. She tried to ignore his heat as it burned though his chain mail, tunic, the blanket at her back, and beneath her legs. She had to think.
“Do you have a phone?”
She could feel the knight studying her for a long moment, could feel that she was trying his patience even before he let out a long sigh. “Nay.”
She’d find one up at the castle. She’d call the police and they could try and make sense out of everything that had happened to her. Maybe they’d have a laugh at her expense as she tried to explain the wild things that had occurred. Maybe everyone in the area knew what was going on here and she’d look like an idiot. But surely they’d escort her back to her car? Or find it, if it had been stolen?
Relaxing a little now that she had a plan, she swayed with the horse as they went through the small village full of busy adults and playing children. Simply built cottages lined the streets. Some looked to be businesses displaying wares. Animal pens clustered between dwellings were filled with noisy, smelly pigs, goats, cows, and sheared sheep. Plowed fields and pastures with people working them surrounded the village, but Gillian couldn’t see any farm equipment.
She spied a river, a pond, and what looked to be a mill. A man pounded metal in one of the buildings, and smoke poured from a chimney in the middle of the structure. Several paths led from the village to the castle.
As Gillian and the knight passed, everyone stopped what they were doing to stare. She looked back wondering if she should call out for help, wondering if she needed help, only most of these people didn’t look as if they would, since they were bowing and dipping as the entourage moved by.
Every person was dressed in medieval clothing. The women in loose dresses with their hair covered, the men in belted tunics and tight pants. Most of the children were barefoot. Could this simply be a new style in England?
She gazed up at the castle dominating th
e landscape, again searching for differences, but nothing had changed since the last time she’d looked. She’d stared at the ruin for hours while she’d sketched. There was the turret in the correct location, the parapets, the bay windows, and the tower. Did they make identical castles back in medieval times? Sort of like medieval tract housing without the subdivisions? Cheaper to make the same type over and over again? Had she been moved to a restored version?
The gatehouse, with its twin towers jutting skyward, caught her attention. According to the brochure, they were completely unique, with no other in England or anywhere else like them. This had to be the same castle, only now it stood in its full glory, strong and rugged not a crumbing stone in sight.
She shook her head. How could that be? What was going on? Had she fallen into a fairy ring? Moved through a worm hole and into the past? Entered a time machine without noticing?
She looked for electric lines, anything that would establish this as the twenty-first century, but found nothing.
She closed her eyes. She was a logical person; she could figure this out. If she took away all the illogical things she believed she was seeing and remembered back to the last thing she remembered for sure, it was obvious that none of this was even happening to her. That only left one explanation.
She was dreaming, delusional, or out of her mind. And was there anything that had happened to her that could cause her to be in that state of mind?
She felt the blood rush out of her face. Of course there was an explanation. The hoodlums who’d chased her toward the castle ruins were assaulting her right this minute; she was lying in the graveyard and her mind was taking her to this far-off place, so she could escape the trauma.
Her heart pounded in her chest, and her breathing escalated.
She’d turned the hoodlums into medieval hoodlums in her mind and then conjured up a Knight in Shining Armor to defend her, complete with sword, shield, and strength. She patted her knight’s arm, grateful for his reassuring presence, but ready to let go now and face reality.
