“Please help me, he tried to k…k…kill me.” She pointed to the blood on her dress. “I don’t know what happened. I can’t remember. I know I didn’t hurt this man. I don’t even know know who he is.” She gestured to the man beside her, making sure to avert her eyes from all the blood and breathe through her mouth.
“Call the police. They have to arrest Simon. He must killed this man.” Another fit of coughing racked her body.
The man snatched his arm back, and they all spoke at once. Had she banged her head? It wasn’t English they were practically shouting. French, maybe? Tourists? Or some kind of re-enactors? Why hadn’t she paid more attention in French class? Right, because she had a crush on Noah. Wonder what ever happened to him?
Lucy remembered how to say hello and thank you, but the rest was long gone from disuse. Falling apart gave way to anger. Her emotions were cycling faster than an instructor leading a spin class.
“Someone summon the authorities.” All she remembered was Simon trying to kill her and then…the flash of something. Metal and pain. Where was Simon?
The men pulled her to her feet, where she stood swaying for a moment, then pointed at her chest. “Bonjour. I’m Lucy Merriweather. I need help.”
She made a walking gesture on her palm by moving her pointer and index fingers. “Help. Away from here. Back to the village. Merci.”
More incomprehensible words and then one of them shoved her as the others clustered around, brandishing swords, yelling and pointing to their dead friend. For the dead man was dressed the same. They all wore long blue shirts and tights.
More yelling ensued. She suddenly realized that since she was covered in the dead man’s blood, they thought she’d murdered the man. Anger gave way to fear as her muddled brain tried to process the strange scene.
Lucy stomped hard on the closest man’s foot with her heel. She pulled out of his grasp, yelping as her forearm started to burn, hitched up the bedraggled dress and ran. Or rather minced, the dress being so formfitting there was no way she could run. A door beckoned at the end of the battlements. She wrenched it open and ran into a solid wall before bouncing back and landing hard on her butt.
The man looming over her was scary. Dark brown hair framed a harsh face. Eyes the lush green of the English countryside glared at her, and his nose, well, it looked like it’d been broken more than once. The man said something in French and scowled down at her.
One of the men behind her called out, a stream of words she couldn’t understand, and the man in front of her narrowed his eyes, demanding something from her. He grabbed her arm, fingers pressing into the soft flesh.
He looked like he was about to give an order to chop off her head. The words came out tumbling over one another. “Ouch, you’re hurting me. Parlez-vous English? I’m not part of this re-enactment. We have to call the authorities. I don’t know what happened to your colleague. But please, I need your phone so I can save my sisters. He said they’d be dead by morning. Don’t you understand? He drugged me, tricked me into marrying him, tried to kill me and then I woke up next to some dead mystery man and I will make Simon pay. I swear it.” Lucy started to hiccup.
He grunted and motioned for the grabby men with pointy swords to come forward. She scrabbled to her feet, punched the terrifying man in the stomach as hard as she could, darted under his arm and hopped into the dimly lit corridor.
“Merde.”
Yep, she was right, it was French. That wasn’t a very nice word, either. She might not speak the language, but everyone knew all the good swear words. Stupid re-enactors. Did they think she was the damsel in distress waiting to be rescued from the dragon? If they did, shouldn’t they be rescuing her instead of trying to poke her with swords that looked and felt awfully real?
Lucy snorted. No way was she a damsel in distress. She would get herself out of this mess, thank you very much. Whatever happened after Simon tried to kill her, she was no longer mousy and introverted. Nope, she would be strong and brave…at least that was the plan.
The poor dead man must have fallen in the storm and hit his head. She’d never seen a dead person before. Okay, she’d seen her grandparents and family, but they were in caskets and looked more like wax figures than real people. The man lying next to her…he had a look of surprise and pain on his face. Not to mention she’d never seen so much blood before. Her stomach heaved, and Lucy swore she’d never eat blackberries again.
Simon. How was it possible to be in a relationship with someone and know so little about who they truly were on the inside? What an idiot she was to land in such a big mess. A tear landed on the tip of her nose. First things first. Find a phone and warn her sisters. Then get on the next plane home. Not in a million years would she ever set foot out of North Carolina again.
Pain pierced her heart. Would she make it home only to plan the funerals of her sisters? Deep down, she worried she was too late. One thing about Simon, he always finished what he started. The pain shredding her body made Lucy trip, landing on her knees. A cry of pain escaped her battered throat. Her arm was bleeding. The pain she’d felt earlier? One of those men had actually cut her. They were taking this living in another time stuff way too seriously. As she stood, a ripping sound filled the air. A bloody knee poked through the dress. On the bright side, now she could run.
Torches lit the stairway as she frantically made her way down. Limp, step, limp, step. She stopped, kicked off the remaining sparkly shoe and fled down the stone steps. At the bottom she came to another door. Odd—she didn’t remember taking a door up to the second floor. Leaning against it with her shoulder, she shrieked when someone yanked her backward into a wall. Desperately sucking in air, she grabbed the forearm across her chest. The owner of said arm spun her around.
Mr. Green Eyes. He towered over her, yelling and shaking her shoes in front of her. Lucy couldn’t understand a single word. It was like French but not. Some kind of whack-a-doodle English? Her confusion must have shown, for he switched to a version of English she could understand.
“Demoiselle, why did you murder my man? Who sent you?” He glared down at her and she froze, hoping the apex predator would pass by if she pretended to be invisible. No such luck.
The man curled his lip. “How did you end Alan?” Green eyes darkened. “A mere wench. Where is your companion? I will run him through. And you will die next to him.”
“Die! I didn’t kill anyone. When I woke, he was lying next to me on the ground. I don’t know what happened.”
The man sneered at her. “You are covered in his blood. Yet you proclaim your innocence? Do you take me for a fool?”
Lucy threw up her hands in exasperation. “I was trying to tell those men. Simon tried to kill me, and when I woke up, he was gone and…and…ugh!”
She couldn’t help it. The strain of the past night and this morning was too much. Lucy couldn’t hold it together for another second. She sobbed and pounded on the man’s chest as he held her. In that flash of insight you sometimes get in moments of extreme emotion, Lucy knew deep in her bones that something was terribly, horribly, dreadfully wrong. She wasn’t in Kansas anymore. If she were in Vegas, she’d bet every cent to her name—she wasn’t in the twenty-first century anymore.
Chapter Four
Late Summer, 1307 - Blackford Castle, England
William Brandon, formerly the son of the earl of Ravenswing, currently the lord of Blackford Castle, scowled down at the sobbing female in his arms and cursed heartily. He was finding it difficult to believe this slip of a girl had killed his guard, no matter what the men thought.
What else would go wrong this day? Three days had passed since he rode across the drawbridge to his new estate. Three days of frustration and complaints from his childhood friend turned steward, Clement.
William wanted nothing more than to go back to his chamber and pretend this day never dawned. But that would not do. He needed to face this latest problem, hopefully the last in a long string of miserable events. The garrison
knights thought the woman dead until she started to struggle under the body of Alan. A frown crossed his face. William wondered if his guard was protecting the girl.
Some unknown person had savagely beaten the wench. The marks on her face and ivory throat sent a bolt of anger coursing through his body. If he found who dared to strike her, William would end the man responsible where he stood. Never would he allow a man to ill-use a woman. Nothing explained why the men had not seen the girl arrive.
The white gown would have been visible in the storm. How did she make it all the way to the battlements unchallenged? And what was the nonsense she’d spewed? He hadn’t listened, he’d been so shocked by her appearance. There had been rumors of secret passages in his home, at which he had scoffed. Mayhap ’twas time to investigate. He would have plenty of time now.
He absently patted the lady’s shoulder. Her sobbing gave way to small noises like those of a wounded animal. Why was the alarm not raised? One of the men should have found his fallen guard and the girl whilst going about his duties. So many unanswered questions made his head ache.
William felt every day of his score-and-five years of age pondering the ways she could have come to be in his home. Why did someone try to murder her? Was she a threat? Many nobles were unhappy he’d been awarded Blackford. Mayhap they were plotting against him. He swore and set his bundle on her feet, patting her full arse.
The lass had courage to match her beauty. He rubbed his stomach, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Her form was good, though the execution fell short. Fortunate she didn’t break her thumb. He would teach her to keep her thumb on the outside of her fist the next time she tried to throttle someone.
One of the guards, wearing his fear on his face like a mask, interrupted his reverie, presenting him with the shoes William had dropped. They were blue, encrusted with gems and shone brilliantly in the sunlight. The man crossed himself. “She’s a witch come to steal our manhood and take our souls to the devil. She killed Alan with her foul incantations.”
William resisted the urge to chuckle and settled instead for rolling his eyes. “Then why does she cower at my feet? Not a very powerful witch.”
The horrorstruck look on the man’s face made William choke back laughter. He quickly sobered. Witchcraft was nothing to jest about. He had witnessed many places and strange doings, but would wager on his best horse this girl was no witch.
“Don’t be daft, man. The lady is not a witch.” He crossed his fingers behind his back and looked the guard square in the face. “Look at her. Witches are ugly old hags, with warts and long noses. Does she look like a witch to you?”
The man peered closer, and William resisted the urge to shout and startle him. The guard scratched his nose and said rather dubiously, “I suppose not, but then how did she come to kill Alan? She should die, my lord.”
“Alan was thrice her size. She could not have murdered him.” William held up a hand, thinking. “Take the men and search the castle, grounds and the cove. She must have had assistance.” She’d spoken strangely and babbled about someone named Simon. Her accomplice?
The guard looked her over. “Is she one of Clement’s wenches?”
“Look at her, man, does she look like a whore?” William stared at the girl, who was trying to curl into a ball at his feet. Small sobs occasionally escaped as she rocked back and forth. Other than the injuries he could see, she had the skin of a wee babe. The dress and shoes were strange but finely wrought. So many gems on her shoes, William would wager she was wealthy and thus a lady. Though why was she alone without escort?
The guard scratched his arse. “She looks like a lady.”
“Begone.”
The guard scurried away, calling to the men. William would have to deal with Clement, his friend since childhood. William had not realized how much his friend changed whilst William was away fighting. He was also a third son. Now fallen on hard times since the family fell into disfavor with the king.
Being stripped of title and lands would send any man to drink and wenching. From what William remembered, Clement had a slovenly character even as a boy. Only now was it wearing on William’s patience. He was growing old. Dealing with Clement would wait. After all, he couldn’t stand around gaping at the woman like a simpleton all day.
Was it too much to ask to come home after fighting for so many years and want to be left in peace? Far away from the rumors that followed him like a curse. He’d been with his king, Edward I, at the battle of Falkirk. Witnessed firsthand the fall of William Wallace. Continued to fight, and was present when Edward passed recently during the campaign against Robert the Bruce, now King of Scotland.
He snorted. Let the Scots keep their bloody country. Now there was a new king, Edward II. A weak king. William had made his way home titled and richer.
Only to find his closest friend, who’d been left in charge of the castle, hadn’t done anything other than eat, drink and wench during the years William was away fighting.
Most of the walls were falling down, the floors so thick with refuse and muck that he slipped and fell on his backside when he made his grand entrance. Pride bruised more than anything, he almost heaved his guts at the unholy stench pervading his home. Cook hadn’t provided an edible meal since his return. The stables were in shambles, the cows and sheep long ago stolen, and he’d found three hens in his bedchamber. Asleep in his bed.
He’d always known Clement ran to idleness, but how could he have let matters fall into such disrepair? William was awarded Blackford after he’d saved his king during battle. Aching from his injuries and unable to leave, he’d sent a missive asking Clement to manage the estate until the fighting ended. He would have been better off leaving it undefended.
And now he had a wench to contend with. His men swore they hadn’t snuck her into the keep, and when he looked closely, she didn’t look like a whore or peasant girl from the village, even if she was dressed like one, with an abundance of golden skin showing.
The dress was white and molded to her shapely form. Her skin the color of a ripe peach, unblemished and unmarked. He peered down at the female in question. Her skin was soft as a babe and smelled like a summer day. Her face was pleasing, with full pink lips and dark lashes, hair the brown of his favorite horse.
What color were her eyes? The fact he’d been staring at her overlong told him he’d not been in the company of a lady in a long time. There was something strange afoot here. The material of the dress was finer than any he’d seen, even in France. He squinted in the dim corridor and shrugged.
How would he know what fashionable ladies wore? Fashion. He never paid attention. As long as he had clothes on his back, he was content to let others such as Clement look the peacock.
Who was she? Clearly the girl didn’t speak the language. Whilst he understood the meaning, the accent was the slow drawl more of a commoner than a highborn lady. Though he had never heard the king’s English spoken in such a manner or with such inflection. A chuckle escaped as he rubbed his stomach again. The wench possessed a strong arm.
A finger jabbed him in the side. “Heard you found a lass. I’ll take her.”
“She isn’t a horse to be bought and sold, Clement. Look at her—she’s of highborn stock. Though how she ended up on my battlements is beyond my understanding.”
The female in question had her ears covered with her hands and was softly humming to herself. Clement stared down at the wench, a look of lust filling his face. This wouldn’t do.
“Move.” William shoved at his steward. They couldn’t very well stand in the corridor blocking the way all day. “The wench needs tending to.”
“You swore a woman would never reside under your roof again. She is a witch. Burn her.”
“No burnings. She is no witch.” Leave it to Clement to bring up the one part of his life he never wanted to remember. William bared his teeth and elbowed his steward out of the way.
“Damnable chivalry,” he grumbled as he scooped the lass up into his
arms. She let out a shriek.
“Silence,” he roared. He’d had enough disorder for the day. William felt the back of her head. There was a large bump, and likely it would pain her with a fearsome ache. She bore a minor cut on her forearm and stomach. Other than that, she didn’t seem to have any broken bones, despite the rent in her dress. He cast a critical eye over his burden, noting the dress looked to be ruined after being out in the rain all night. It was more gray than white, and spattered with blood, mud and other muck he’d rather not think about.
His guest looked up at him through dark lashes and eyes as gray as a winter sky. She mumbled something unintelligible then fell silent. He had much to see to without a bloody woman to worry over. Shifting her weight, he felt the bare skin of her legs as he placed one arm more firmly under her knees. They were smooth as silk. Not like other women he’d bedded with furry legs to match his own.
What would it be like to bed a woman who was slippery as a seal? Not that he’d do anything of the sort with this woman, it was simply idle speculation. For Clement was correct. William allowed his men to frequent the wenches in the village. But women were not to reside under his roof. After Georgina, he’d never trust another woman again. Bed them but never love them.
He shifted the weight in his arms. Whatever her circumstances, he’d see her fed and on her way with one of his men to see her safe on the morrow. For he knew she had not killed his guard. He would puzzle out her identity and how she came to be in his home without escort later. For he did not want her under his roof any longer than need be.
An overlarge group gathered as he entered the hall. William raised his head and met the eye of every servant and warrior.
“The woman is under my protection.” Not a soul would gainsay him. He had matters to attend to, matters that did not include a lost lady. William planned to remain without a shrewish wife who would plague him the rest of his days. He wanted to be left alone to forget the horrors he had witnessed. Here at Blackford, no one would whisper behind his back. Women were no longer welcome in his life.
A Knight to Remember: Merriweather Sisters Time Travel (Merriweather Sisters Time Travel Romance Book 1) Page 4
