A string of curses left his lips as he carried her through the hall and up the stairs. Startled men scurried out of his way. The wench took one look around his hall and fell senseless. He supposed that bespoke volumes regarding the state of his household.
“Bring wine and bread.”
Without waiting to see who obeyed, he took the stairs two at a time and paused on the threshold. Other than his and Clement’s rooms, the rest of the hall was still in a state of filth and disrepair. A hearty sigh left his lips, and with another muttered curse, he kicked the door open to his own chamber.
Removed from his own bed by a woman. He should lock her in one of the filthy rooms with a guard, though truly he would not believe she’d had a hand in the death of his guard. He was growing soft. William should put her in the stables. Though they weren’t much different from the rest of Blackford in terms of order and cleanliness. One stall for his own horse was clean, and for the rest he’d commandeered three small boys to work in the stables, clearing out the refuse.
With a withering glare at the senseless maid in his bed, William gave up pondering questions he had no answer to. On the morrow he would have answers before sending her away. No matter how fetching she be. He’d been through muck and blood up to his elbows. How hard could it be to manage a slip of a girl?
William cast a baleful eye over her, muttering as he took his leave. Halfway down the corridor he bellowed, “Thomas, John!” The men appeared breathless in front of him.
“Guard the wench. One of you fetch food from the kitchens.” Unease slithered around his stomach as if he’d swallowed live eels.
Chapter Five
Lucy jerked awake. “Simon, I had the worst nightmare.”
The covers fell off as she sat up with a groan. It was freezing in here. What she wouldn’t give for the blistering heat of a day at the beach right about now. She shivered again, looking around the room. Nothing made any sense. The bed was the same yet different. The mattress felt lumpy, the sheets like old linen. The blankets wool and velvet. Come to think of it, the room was different too. There were lush tapestries on the walls, a fire in the fireplace, papers on the desk and a pair of boots next to a chest. The room looked lived in, not abandoned and dusty as she’d remembered from last night.
And why was she still in the wedding gown? Had she gone swimming in the sea in the beautiful dress and ruined it? Given the monster headache, maybe she’d drunk an entire bottle of champagne herself? Lucy sniffed. Leaned down to the dress and sniffed again. Ugh. She smelled too awful for this to be a dream.
And then like a freight train missing a curve and derailing, everything came rushing back. Her subconscious decided at that moment to wake up and start yelling. The drugged champagne. Simon yammering on about some stupid curse, and let’s not forget him tricking you into actually marrying him and then trying to kill you.
How very wrong she’d been. Another mistake. This one worse than all the ones before. How could she have been so stupid? She had the worst taste in the history of the world when it came to falling for the wrong guy. Oh no, she was married to him. No, no, no. Her wedding was supposed to be special, a happy occasion, not something she wanted to forget ever happened.
And what did he mean, she was descended from the Brandon line but Charlotte and Melinda weren’t? He’d never loved her. Only wanted her because of some ridiculously wrong family tree. What hurt even more? He thought she was mousy and common. Insults of the past came screaming back, and she was five again, hiding in the dusty stacks of the library at school, crying her eyes out.
Oh God, her sisters. What time was it? She searched the bed for her phone, coming up empty. Was she too late—were they already dead? Her feet hit a soft rug as Lucy frantically looked under the bed and in every corner of the room for her phone. A jumbled image of the phone flying over the wall and crashing on the rocks below filled her mind.
After what seemed like hours, she slumped in the chair in front of the desk unseeing, replaying the horrible events of last night over and over again. A vague impression of someone watching over her last night flitted through her mind and was gone as quick as a hummingbird.
The sound of clanging steel dragged her from mentally yelling at herself for the hundredth time. On tiptoe, she peered out of the window and staggered back, black spots dancing in front of her eyes. They were back. The re-enactors had taken over the entire castle. Did Simon rent the place out? She needed a phone to call her sisters. Surely one of those crazy guys had one stashed in his tights.
The dead guy. How could she be so selfish as to forget about him? The room tilted, her stomach heaved and Lucy pictured the guy on the ground in a pool of blood. Swallowing, she opened her eyes and looked outside again. Not a single police car or ambulance. Maybe they’d been and gone? But wouldn’t they want to talk to her?
The heavy door looked new. Lucy pulled it open and jumped back. A boy was leaning against the wall.
“My lady? May I be of assistance? I am Albin.” He gave a small bow. She peered at him. He looked young, though it was hard to tell in the gloom. Albin was dressed like the others in some sort of tunic and hose. At least he didn’t pretend not to speak English. She peered up and down the corridor.
“I need to go outside, but first I need the bathroom.” And with that, she pushed past him and stomped down the corridor.
“A bathroom?” He whimpered.
Seriously. This was taking the acting thing a bit far. Ignoring him, Lucy continued to explore, wishing her head would clear.
The boy looked about ten or eleven, and followed behind her, babbling the entire way. “Lady, stop. I’m to guard you. My lord won’t be pleased.”
“Your lord can stuff it. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Take me to the man in charge.”
The boy gulped, and she felt like a brat.
“Everything will be fine, you’ll see.” She patted his sleeve and smiled when he blushed. Lucy came down the stairs feeling a bit woozy and icky. She desperately needed to brush her teeth. The tiny room that she thought was a bathroom was nothing more than a hole in a stone seat with what looked like hay in a bucket.
The smell told her it was some kind of primitive outhouse. Or was it an in-house, since it was inside? There wasn’t a shower to be found. She knew. She’d checked every door. No mirror, either. Her throat burned and her face throbbed in time with her headache, but considering she’d escaped with her life, she wasn’t going to complain.
The stairs too seemed somehow different. Less worn, newer. Then again, it was night and she’d been drugged, so she probably wasn’t clear on several things.
Except for one—she was now married to Simon. At least until she could get it annulled. He’d committed fraud, tricked her. She would see him in jail if it was the last thing she did.
Right. She’d have been better off marrying one of the cute cows in the field outside. Her husband. Nope. Make that her soon-to-be ex-husband. It would be the quickest marriage and divorce ever. Even shorter than some of the celebrities she loved to read about.
There had to be some crazy explanation for what was happening to her. Or she’d had one hell of a hallucination or some kind of bad drug trip. Either way, it was time to get answers. There was no way she’d fallen through time. Nope. That only happened in books and movies. Not in real life.
She tripped and fell over the last step, landing in a heap on the floor. The dress ripped again and she felt like crying. What if her sisters were dead? There had to be time to warn them. Nothing else was acceptable.
The boy made a sound of distress. “Forgive me, lady.”
As the re-enactors in the hall moved around her, Lucy’s mouth fell open. She shut it just as fast and pinched her nose with her fingers before she threw up. The smell. It was like a garbage dump on a hot summer day overlaid with body odor, animal odor and—she wrinkled her nose, breathing shallowly through her mouth—something dead.
“Ewww, this is disgusting.”
The sce
ne before her was a bit too authentic for her tastes. There were a few tapestries on the wall, and enormous fireplaces flanked the room set into the wall. She squinted, noticing the stone hearths carved with scenes of animals. A man sat back and critically looked over the carving he was working on. There were a few chairs in front of the hearth, looking like a nice spot to curl up with a book.
Overall, the hall seemed in better condition than she’d thought last night—well, except for the smell. She would have remembered such a dreadful stench. People came and went, all dressed in period clothing. Forget the re-enactors. Maybe they were filming a movie.
A tiny voice in her head whispered again she was no longer in the twenty-first century, but Lucy was having none of that nonsense. As Aunt Mildred used to say, no sense borrowing trouble.
The boy caught up to her and took her arm. He sighed, a long-suffering sigh. “This way, lady.”
Were his teeth chattering? What on earth was he so afraid of?
The heavy doors to outside and fresh air beckoned, and Lucy followed her nose. Barefoot, wearing a rumpled wedding dress, with half her hair hanging down her back, she looked around and hoped she hadn’t stepped into the middle of filming and ruined the shot. No one yelled “cut,” so she followed the sounds around the corner and stopped, blinking at the sight.
“Albin?”
The boy took a firm grip on her arm. “Not to worry, lady, I won’t let you fall again.”
“It’s Lucy. My name is Lucy.”
Some of the walls were falling down, and the stables looked half-finished. A scraggly garden in one corner, a few ramshackle buildings along one wall and a chapel also awaited repair.
The scene in front of her was sheer chaos. Men fought with swords. It didn’t look like playacting. They looked deadly serious. The boy led the way and she followed, whipping her head back and forth, trying to take everything in.
“Hello, I need a phone.” Lucy coughed and covered her mouth to keep the dust out. Swords clanged, men grunted and she smelled horses and sweat. No one paid any attention to her. It was certainly a masculine scene. Though where were the cameras? The director? Not a movie-type person to be seen. Okay, so not a movie.
Re-enactors. A man landed at her feet with a grunt, wiped blood from his mouth, swore and slashed up at his attacker. Lucy jumped back. They were awfully authentic. She touched a hand to her bandaged forearm. Hadn’t she been cut last night? While she was biting her lower lip trying to come up with a plausible solution to the chaos in front of her, he stalked toward her.
“Albin. I told you to guard the lady. What is she doing in the lists?”
It was the man from her bad acid trip, as she was now calling it. But hallucinations went away when you woke up. Could she still be tripping? She wished she’d read more about drugs, but she’d never tried anything stronger than pot, and it was only the one time. It made her feel nauseated and icky, and after that it was a couple glasses of wine and she was tipsy as a cat on catnip.
The boy stuttered and turned pale. “She’s powerful quick, my lord.”
“Off with you. I’ll see to the wench.”
The man nearing them was sexy and scary at the same time, which, according to her new code, meant he was bad news. There was a scar at the corner of his nose that gave him a rakish pirate look. Busy eyeing him, she didn’t hear him at first.
“Demoiselle?” He scowled.
She had no clue what the rest of the words meant.
“Sorry, I don’t speak French. That is what you’re speaking, right? Do y’all speak English?” Great. Her accent always came out when she was nervous. Now she probably sounded like some ditzy Southern belle.
“I need to borrow your phone. It’s an emergency. I have to call my sisters. And the police.”
“You require aid, my lady?” The man with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen cocked an eyebrow.
“Cut the act. This is serious. Your phone. Now. And what’s with all the ‘my lady’ stuff? My name is Lucy.”
“Lady, you have a bump on your head and are not yourself. Does your throat and face pain you? I dressed the wound on your arm, so it should not putrefy.” He handed her some kind of leather-looking bottle. “I know not this word ‘phone.’ If you keep standing there gaping, my lady, you may find yourself in danger. Sit on the bench and wait.”
“It’s Lucy. Just Lucy.” How bossy! The infuriating man looked down his crooked nose at her and crossed massive arms over his chest. What, was he going to start tapping his foot if she didn’t move?
“Arf. Arf. Fine. And I wasn’t staring. I’ve just never seen re-enactor knights before. You’re very authentic. Did you travel here from France”—she gestured to the men around them—“to practice? Will there be a joust and tournament?” Lucy opened the bottle and drank, sputtering at the taste.
The blow on her back almost sent her to her knees. “Better?” The man peered at her like she was some kind of interesting bug pinned to a board.
“My men and I train daily. Blackford is my home. Gifted to me for service to my king.” He rubbed his shoulder. “We hold no tournament. I want no visitors. Only to be left alone.”
Meaning he didn’t want her around. Lucy didn’t want to be here anyway. She needed to go home. She sent up a prayer. Please don’t let Charlotte and Melinda be dead. She blinked back the tear that threatened to fall and made her way over to a stone bench set against a wall, dragging the tattered gown as she walked.
How could he not know the word for phone? Talk about taking this historic thing to silly levels. And why couldn’t she see the cottage? Lucy leaned back and looked around. Where was the road? The castle looked new. No longer a ruin.
No longer a ruin.
The men. The people around her. The language. Her brain kept screaming the truth at her, but she’d refused to listen. There was only one explanation that made sense.
She had fallen.
Through time. But to when?
All of a sudden, she put her head between her knees. “Please, don’t let me faint.”
Tiny yellow and green spots danced in front of her eyes. A low buzzing filled her ears, and for the first time in her twenty-four years, she thought she might be having a heart attack—or was it a panic attack?
“My lady, do you require aid?”
As if she had conjured him, the bossy man knelt before her, looking at her with concern in his eyes.
“I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“You are under attack?” He pursed his lips. “I see no one wishing you ill.”
“Panic attack.” Pant. Blink. Count to five and breathe. The primitive part of her brain ignored the emotional crazy going on and took a moment to admire the man in front of her. Lucy swallowed as her mouth filled with saliva.
This guy was built like a brick wall. Those broad shoulders, narrow waist, strong legs. This was not a body made in the gym but one made with serious hard work—right, like swinging and hacking away at enemies with the wicked-looking sword hanging from his hip.
One of the other men with a sword scowled down at her. “She speaks the vulgar tongue of the lower classes. Send her away.”
“Back to the lists. I shall aid this lady.” The man stomped away and then Mr. Green Eyes touched her arm.
“My lady?”
The softly spoken word drew her attention. “The feeling is passing. I think I’m okay. At least now I know why no one has a phone. And this might explain why I can’t find the rat extraordinaire, Simon.”
He looked at her as if she was an escapee from an asylum. “You are unwell. Albin will see you to your chamber.”
“No,” she whispered to herself. “I have no way to warn them.” She clutched at his tunic. “Don’t you understand? I’m too late. They’re dead. Because of me.”
And without warning, Lucy threw up all over his boots.
Chapter Six
The world continued to spin. Lucy heaved a few more times before risking a look at the man in front
of her. She felt weightless, boneless, as if she’d died and was floating to heaven.
A piece of fabric was thrust into her face.
“I threw up on your boots.” She wiped her face, cheeks flaming. “I’m so sorry.”
She must have looked panicked, because the man gently placed her beside him on the stone bench. Grateful, she leaned in to him, inhaling sweat, wool and horse.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Blackford. William. What is your name, my lady?”
Her subconscious butted in again. You’re in hospital in a coma, having a dream.
Shut up, she told herself. I am not. But it was strange he had the same last name Simon said was hers. He was obviously an ancestor of Simon’s with the Lord Blackford stuff. Which meant he was no good. But shouldn’t his last name be Grey? Though she’d always liked the name William. It was a strong, solid name. Would he help her when he knew her story? Her mind was going in fifty different directions at once.
“Lady? Your name?”
“Lucy Merriweather. I don’t suppose you could tell me what year it is?”
William spent a restless night slumped in a damned uncomfortable chair watching Lucy sleep. He’d left before dawn to take his frustration out in the lists. No one knew any more about her. His men found no signs of any traveling party. No sign of a struggle. It was as if the wench appeared out of the sky and landed in his castle.
And then she was ill on his boots. He cast a critical eye over his unwanted guest. As unpleasant a thought as it was, William could see no way to be rid of the wench. Damnable chivalry. The lass couldn’t keep wandering around in a tattered, bloodstained dress. She was starting to smell, her hair looked as if she’d spent a night in his stables and her feet were filthy. Yet her face was pleasing, her body made of curves a man could sink himself into and her eyes, he could stare into them all day. No. He shook his head. He would not be bewitched by another lying female.
A Knight to Remember: Merriweather Sisters Time Travel (Merriweather Sisters Time Travel Romance Book 1) Page 5
