Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) Read online

  She glanced around, unable to tell if her words were making an impact. Had the man with the torch slowed? “Every single one of you will die when it is discovered what you did here this day. You don’t like my hair? My clothes? Well, the king certainly does. And he trusts me to run his errands. Go and get Laird MacGregor and see if I’m lying. When he sees the crown, he’s going to bring anguish down upon all your heads. Do not infuriate the king, and do not shame MacGregor when he doesn’t follow the king’s instructions.”

  Every one of them had stopped what they were doing to stare between her and the crown. The man with the torch stood frozen off to the side, worry in his expression.

  Fear tightened some of the faces in the crowd. Then the murmurs started.

  She needed to press while she had the upper hand. “Now! I want to see the laird now. It’s my right, by way of the king!”

  Again, she looked at the man with the torch, then, not knowing what else to do, looked up at the sunny sky and prayed for rain.

  Chapter Five

  Ian’s muscles strained as he used the now-damaged kitchen knife to hollow out more of the beam, while at the same time keeping his balance on the ladder.

  “Laird MacGregor?” The voice was faint, as was the knock.

  He stilled. He was sure he’d bolted the door, and none would dare enter with him inside, but he hurried down the ladder to the archway of his bedchamber. Unbolting the entry, he looked out. “Aye? What is it?”

  The young girl kept her head bent, but he heard her swallow. “Lady Janetta wonders if you’d like your supper now.”

  “Tell her I’ll be down in a moment.”

  He shut and bolted the door, waited, and when he didn’t hear anything, climbed the ladder once more. He picked up the dull blade and continued hollowing the wood.

  One positive about physical labor was he always found it easier to think. He missed training with equals, missed the tournaments. Mayhap he should be grateful for whoever was trying to kill him. Without the riddle to solve, he might find himself growing bored.

  As he twisted the knife, circling the wood, he mentally went back to his list of supposed foes. Regardless that Brecken had saved him, the man was still heir, and so still Ian’s main suspect. But he had to admit that was more for lack of villains presenting themselves than anything the man had said or done. In fact, Brecken acted carefree and completely uninterested in the running of clan affairs, more drawn to fighting and girls—or rather, one girl in particular—than in anything else.

  Ian wiped his brow. If his father’s wife still lived, he’d have been convinced she’d had a hand in the thing. The woman had been pure poison herself. No doubt she could have simply touched any food he ate beforehand and venom would have oozed from her pores to taint it. He’d have expired on the spot while she gloated over his frothing, gurgling corpse.

  Still, mayhap it was a woman? Granted, the servants seemed to fear him. Cook. Any of the maids. Even the laundresses, soap makers, and cup-bearers flinched at his approach. Who knew what resentments they harbored? No matter he did little to frighten or harm them, all quaked at his presence.

  Little wonder he desired to spend his time alone.

  There was much malevolent history about the place. Menace and threat permeated the very walls at times. He’d grown up knowing many of the petty intrigues, but he’d not been about the place in years. At times he thought he wouldn’t mind going back to the Scottish court or even the English. The intrigues there were fairly easily discovered. No one ever stopped talking, gossiping, and whispering. Here, on the other hand, he’d never seen such a group of closed-mouths.

  Letting out a breath, he finally replaced the beam against its twin, and dusted the wood shavings clinging to wall and floor. The work was exhausting, and he half-regretted choosing the beam. An oaken sill under his bedroom window would perhaps have sufficed for hiding more of the valuables he’d won in past tournaments and in the king’s service.

  Mayhap he’d craft that one next, as the idea intrigued him. He could keep a handful of gold coins in it, available at a moment’s notice. He liked that idea.

  He descended the ladder once more, slid it under his bed, hid the dull blade, then scooped up slivers of wood and dust and tossed it all out the window. He kicked at the leftover dust until it dispersed, then remembered to brush out his thick hair with his fingers, else the shavings would show against the dark.

  He grimaced as his stomach rumbled. He truly did need sustenance. The apples he picked directly from the trees weren’t enough to fill him, and the thought of eating another made him sick to his stomach. And surly, blast it. He’d be naught but skin and bones at this rate. He had to catch the murderer before he did the villain a favor and collapsed from starvation.

  When he walked into the hall a few minutes later, the servants scrambled away. Ian’s lips pressed together and he could feel his face tighten. What did they think he’d do? Murder them all?

  “Ian.”

  He turned to Janetta, Brecken’s mother, seated at the long table on the dais, smiling at him. She lifted a hand in greeting. “Good-day to you.”

  “Good-day, Aunt.”

  His father’s sister beckoned him closer. As he was late to the noonday meal, most were already done and gone, which suited him fine. Any man who looked at him overlong while he ate tended to become suspect.

  Dugald sat alone at one end of the table eating a late meal, and, as always, avoiding eye contact as he wolfed his food.

  “I’m starved.” Ian announced as he made his way across the room.

  Janetta’s smile brightened and she set down the embroidery she worked on and stood. “O’ course you are. I’ll be right back, my dear.”

  Ian seated himself and watched as the servants went about their chores, avoiding his gaze, while they managed their tasks as far from him as possible. He grimaced. He was pleasant to them for the most part. Even when the unknown villain or villains had tried to strike him down, he hadn’t blamed any of them, so their cowering was irritating.

  He turned to look at the needlepoint Janetta had set on the table. The face of a young girl was all he could make out, but he felt a flicker of warmth for the feminine, graceful pastime. He hoped Janetta planned to hang it on the wall when finished.

  He glanced about the sterile room. Frankly, he’d appreciate anything that would brighten this gloomy old place. Granted, he’d torn down many of the tapestries his father’s wife had ordered fashioned and burned them when he’d arrived, so he’d none but himself to blame for the lack of decor, or the chill that was sure to seep in come winter.

  Still, he wouldn’t undo it if he could. Destroying that woman’s life’s work in a single afternoon had proved highly satisfactory, with the added benefit of erasing the scenes that bore witness to the many humiliations of his childhood.

  He drummed his fingers against the tabletop. He could order more tapestries. And mayhap it was time for him to marry. A few wall hangings and a wee bit of chatter and laughter in the place wouldn’t come amiss. Finding a girl who’d have him, now that was a problem in itself, though, wasn’t it? His lips curled. Perhaps he should petition the king. The young whelp owed him, but Ian doubted the king’s choice of bride and his own would match. Better he should marry a girl from his own or a neighboring clan. But finding one who didn’t cross herself against him or scurry off did he look overlong in her direction might prove difficult.

  Janetta returned ten minutes later, bringing out his meal herself. The generous portions of venison, fish, onions, and cabbage all smelled and looked delicious. She fussed around him as she set the steaming plate down, a spoon to one side, and beckoned a serving wench forward with ale.

  She waited for him to take a bite.

  He hesitated.

  “I assure you, I stood over Cook myself and watched her prepare yer food.”

  Her earnestness amused him, her natural warmth and friendliness again reminding him of his mother. If not for his aunt, life w
ould be much less pleasant. He wondered if Brecken knew how lucky he was. Mayhap her interest and concern toward Ian was yet another reason for Brecken to be jealous. Ian shrugged. “Who knows where the food was before you arrived to watch the preparation.”

  He picked up a piece of venison, then fish, and threw it to a waiting dog.

  Janetta tsked her disapproval as she sat. “Ian, truly, ’tis a waste. I told you, I carefully watched Cook, myself.”

  He threw the dog some cabbage and onion. “Sorry, Aunt. Old habits die hard.”

  She huffed out a breath.

  “Doona take offense. I’ve no doubt you’ve protected me. But the ingredients, themselves, could be tainted. Anyhow, I doubt I’ll ever be able to let off wi’ precautions ’til I catch the culprit. I’ve no intention of dying to please a sneaky, sniveling, backstabbing coward.”

  She lifted a shoulder, her expression troubled. “It just seems a displeasing way to live.”

  “Mayhap, but at least I’ll live.”

  The little brown dog thumped his tail, his eyes adoring, a white paw lifting to beg for more. Ian was glad the dog didn’t die. He liked the mutt. And what was more, it actually seemed to like him in return.

  Janetta resumed her seat and picked up her needle. “You’re too used to the king’s court.”

  Ian met Dugald’s ironic gaze as the man cleaned under his fingernails with his blade on the far side of the table. He was well aware Dugald thought this place more of a viper’s nest than even the king’s court. “If I wasn’t, I dare say I’d be dead already.”

  Her brows drew together. “Perhaps when the last dog died, the food was simply spoiled?”

  Ian wanted to laugh. She clearly did not wish to think unkindly of another. “Spoiled food doesna act so quickly. I appreciate that one as tender of heart as you could not understand the dark intents of others, but believe me, I’ve seen enough of the world that I no longer doubt the lengths some will go to in order to achieve their own ends.”

  She still looked distressed. Perhaps he shouldn’t put so much effort into disillusioning her. He liked her as she was. Sweet, loving, and untainted by the schemes of others.

  He waited a few moments more, then, when the dog didn’t die, he finally took a bite of beef and cabbage. He barely kept himself from moaning aloud as the flavors melded against his tongue. So much better than the apples.

  She watched him, a pleased expression on her face, while he chewed and swallowed. “There, then. That’s better.” She took up her tapestry and needle. “How are you doing this day? Is there aught I can help wi’?”

  He sincerely doubted she wished to count stores, chop wood, or train men, though she might enjoy helping him with his latest hiding place as she alone seemed to appreciate the hard-won gold he’d brought with him. “Thank you for your kind offer, but ye’ve your own work to occupy you, and grateful I am for your skill at running the castle.”

  Her gaze dropped, and she looked pleased.

  Besides, he didn’t wish her involved in his main task of working out who the possible assassin could be. Especially as her own son still topped the list. If not Brecken, it could be anyone, could it not? And perhaps for reasons he was unable to fathom. For all he knew, it might be the lot of them, every man, woman, and child in the castle or the village beyond.

  She lowered the tapestry again. “You’re scowling. Is the food not to your liking?”

  “It’s good.” He took another bite. He might even think to suspect Janetta, if the idea weren’t so ludicrous. She was Brecken’s mother, after all. Ian’s father’s sister. But she was the only one he did trust to keep him alive. When he’d arrived so unexpectedly by the king’s command, she’d admitted her son wasn’t ready for such responsibility as Laird, and that Ian could teach him much. He’d seen the relief in her eyes.

  “Weel, keep eating. When you’re finished, I’ll bring more.” Janetta plied her needle through linen. “You’re decreasing to skin and bones.”

  He pulled his plate forward and took another spoonful when the front door was thrown wide and a young boy came running into the hall.

  “There’s a witch in the village! And they’re to burn her in the square. Hurry, or ye’ll miss it entirely.” The boy, having delivered his message, scurried back out.

  Every eye in the hall turned toward Ian as he stood so fast his chair overturned and crashed to the floor. He grabbed an ax off the wall and ran out the door—heat, anger, and violence surging inside him until he saw red. He tore down the road, a well-armed Dugald at his heels.

  They thought to burn a woman in his village? On his watch? Right beneath his very nose? Not while he yet lived and breathed. He was sick of the superstitious lot of them, and now they’d gone too far. Burn a woman in the very location of his own mother’s murder? After he’d recently erected a monument to honor her? While his people, who should and did know better, looked on? Had another priest sneaked into the village without his knowledge?

  He should send the craven lot of them straight to Satan’s dark realms. If so much as the hem of the woman’s skirt was scorched, someone would die this night, and ’twould not be the female.

  ~~~

  Samantha tried to appear calm, confident, and brave; the kind of girl sent as emissary to a king. She attempted to keep the tears at bay, and tried not to stare at the guy holding the torch.

  She was too young to die. And she’d never be old enough to be burned to death as a bunch of strangers watched her skin char and melt from her body.

  What was wrong with these people?

  She gulped a few times, trying to still the panic, instinctively knowing that any sort of hysteria would be like fuel on the fire. Ugh. Bad analogy. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them. “Look, guys, you need to understand that I’m a very nice person. I’m trustworthy and hardworking. I know my hair looks terrible, but this color is all the rage in...in London right now. I was assured that this unfortunate shade would fade quickly. I hope that’s true, because I actually like my own hair color much better.”

  She looked down. “And this dress is horrible, I know it. But I’m planning to give it to charity the moment I can. I’m kind that way, and I don’t like to waste good material.”

  She noticed a large man running down the dirt road leading to the castle, others trailing behind him. Was rescue at hand? Or was this an afternoon’s entertainment that no one wanted to miss?

  Clearing her throat, she swallowed against the tightness. “I’m sure you’re all wondering where I came from and what my purpose is in being here. Well, the truth is, I’m actually working for King Alexander III.” She tried to make eye contact with the men and women in the crowd, one at a time. She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “I’m on a secret mission for him, and if I end up getting killed, he’s not going to be very happy with any of you, is he?”

  No one commented, but they did seem less fearful and more curious. Finally, a man stepped forward. “Why would King Alexander work wi’ a witch?”

  The large man came to a stop at the edge of the crowd, breathing hard, but at the comment about the king, he looked at her, his expression sharp. He leaned an ax against a broad shoulder, the blade pointing skyward and she froze. Was the guy some sort of executioner? The crowd shifted as they poked and prodded each other, until everyone knew he was there. He was hard to miss and they were obviously ill at ease. The guy was big, muscular, and ruthless-looking. He certainly scared Samantha with his size and menacing air. Would he side with these maniacs?

  Another man carrying weapons slid through the crowd around to the other side.

  She tugged against the rope, the bindings cutting into her wrists. “I’m not a witch, I’m an emissary to the king.”

  A woman’s voice rose from the middle of the crowd. “She’s English. Ye can tell from her speech. They do things different than we do. It doona mean she’s a witch.”

  “Shut it, Edina,” Willie said. “Stay out of this.”

 
; A man placed his arm around the woman and shushed her.

  “Yes. Yes, that’s true.” Samantha nodded vigorously, anxious to get a discussion going. “We English are a little odd in our appearance, that’s for sure.” The fact that she was American would only confuse the issue, and she definitely wanted to keep it simple. “Please, let me go now. The king will be very angry if I end up getting burned, and you can just imagine what he would do.”

  She pulled, using her whole body to try and lift the pole, but it held firm. “Plus, I’m courteous and helpful and I give to charity and everything. You don’t want to burn a good-hearted person such as myself, right? Think of your eternal souls. And just imagine the smell. It...it won’t come out of your hair or clothes for weeks, I can promise you that.”

  She laughed nervously, chattering now, seeming unable to stop herself, her gaze going to the guy in the back again, positive he’d affect the outcome somehow. “And think about what you want to teach your children. Is your aim to see them grow up to be animals who burn people? Do you want them to fear everyone who isn’t exactly like them? Can you just imagine if any of you went to the king’s court? Everyone there is fashionable to the point of ridiculous. They look nothing like you. Their hair is different. Their clothes are different. Perhaps you’d burn the king, himself? Shall I tell him so?” She tugged at the ropes again. “Or would you rather just let me go so we can forget about this entire thing?”

  Willie waved an arm. “Did ye hear her? She’s threatenin’ us.”

  “Oh, no. No, no. You misunderstood. No threat intended, I swear. This is just a discussion between friends, right?”

  “Swear it to God Almighty, Himself.”

  “I swear to God Almighty, Himself, I didn’t intend to threaten you. Scout’s honor,” she added for good measure.