Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (11 page)

Torch high, he turned and faced the crowd. “You forget yourselves. This is my place. My land—my people—my choices. No one is killing this girl. Not while there’s a single breath left in my body.”

Chapter Six

Ian glared first at Willie, then at the shocked faces of the crowd, meeting gazes that quickly dropped. He snorted in disgust. “How many times need I say it? There are no such things as witches. All that burning a beautiful woman will get you is a well-deserved spot in hell.”

Ian flung the torch toward a nearby creek and it twisted and whooshed noisily three times before landing with a splash and sizzle. He heard the woman behind him exhale sharply. He turned, nodded at the white-faced female behind him, and then glared at the villagers once more.

He was aware in stopping the witch-burning, he undid all the hard work he’d wrought with his people, and his jaw clenched painfully hard. It couldn’t be helped. It was hardly his fault the lot of them were daft.

Ian could hear the woman crying softly behind him and tried to control his reaction, tried not to let the past overtake the present, but anger filled him and he said, through gritted teeth, “Do any of ye honestly think that I will
ever
let you burn a woman here again? I’m no longer a young child to be shoved into submission as murder is done. Be glad I was here to stop ye this time, else I’d have done butchery of my own this night.”

He gestured to the stone in the middle of the square. “Was I not clear when I raised the monument to my murdered mother? There are no such creatures as witches, only frightened women burned by fearful or evil men. If ye fear of curses and such, why not worry about facing your maker and explainin’ to him why ye did murder?”

“But you heard her,” Willie voiced his indignation, even as his shoulders stooped as he cowered slightly. “She cursed us. She cursed you too. She’ll take yer firstborn.”

There were a couple of nods as neighbors looked at each other in confirmation, but for the most part, everyone waited for his reaction.

“Truly? Then we heard two different things, did we not? What I heard was a frightened girl trying to talk the lot of you out of
burning her to death!”
Ian shouted the last. “Perhaps I should have ye trade places, hand her a torch, and see what gibberish ye spout as ye try and save yourselves from a horrible death. Then we can use your words against ye and pat ourselves on the back for shedding blood, aye?”

Willie looked down, but his lips were still tight, mutinous.

Ian felt his anger rising higher. Standing there, so close to the spot his mother begged for her own life, as he’d pleaded alongside—how
dare
they? Well, never again. “I like my new plan. Shall I give her the chance to burn the lot of ye? Then ye can have a turn at beggin’ for your lives the way my mother did all those years ago. Your children can plead, as I did.”

He pointed behind him. “But this woman might not be swayed. As none of you came to her defense this day, why should she come to yours? And I’ll let her, you know. I’ll light the torches myself as each of you entreats her mercy and the air is filled wi’ the stench of cooking flesh. What say you?”

No one moved, but some of the women and children started crying, hugging themselves and each other.

“Let me be clear. If the lot of you believe this village is overrun wi’ witches I’ll not lift a hand to rid
my
village of them. And make no mistake. This village is
mine.”
He bellowed the last word, then turned to look at the wide-eyed beauty. “What say you, girl? Shall I light the torches and let you burn them all? Because I will, if that be your fancy.”

The girl shook her brightly-colored head. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” she said, her voice quavering.

He turned back to the mob again. “Ha! Hear you that? I’ve given a supposed witch the chance to kill you all, and does she snatch at the possibility? No, she responds as a good Christian woman, wi’ horror at the thought. Shame on the lot of ye. If she’d possessed the ability to smite and curse you all, ’twoud be nothin’ less than ye deserve. Now cut her down.”

The villagers stood frozen in place.

“Now!”
he roared.

Gwain, the butcher, disentangled from his wife and daughter and cut the girl’s ropes. He helped her out of the woodpile as Ian watched his every move.

The girl trembled slightly, tears drying on her cheeks, and she looked up at Ian, gratitude writ on her beautiful pale face. The otherworldly red of her hair glowed in the sunshine and she rubbed her wrists as, together, they turned to watch the villagers disperse, one by one, stealing away without a sound.

“Thank you,” she said, letting out a shuddering breath and straightening her shoulders.

He exhaled. “Aye, lass. Now you’re to come wi’ me and explain yerself.”

She swallowed, nodded, and asked, “Are you Ian MacGregor? The man who worked for King Alexander the III?”

“Aye. How d’ye know me? Were ye at court, then?”

Looking achingly beautiful, she gave a slight smile, her teeth impossibly straight and white. “I’m sort of a fan.”

“A fan?”

“An admirer.”

“Are you now?” Considering he’d just saved her life, that didn’t surprise him, but it warmed his chest just the same. Had she been present at the tourneys, then?

“I am. And I’m in your debt.” Her eyes were a lovely shade of brown, a light warm amber, filled with gratitude, and mayhap something more he didn’t understand. He inhaled slowly, his heart starting a slow pound. She was a beauty, that was for certain. Women about Inverdeem didn’t generally smile at him, and, even knowing the cause, it made him slightly nervous. His deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation kicked in and he narrowed his eyes. “And you. Did not the good Lord give you a portion of sense? Did ye truly have to curse the lot o’ them?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Begging your pardon, miss.” A village woman sidled forward and held out The Crown of Scotland.

“Oh, thank you.” As the woman beside him reached for it, Ian, chest gone cold, snatched it away, unable to believe what he was seeing, what he held in his hands. When they’d mentioned a crown earlier,
this crown,
he’d not believed they could be talking of such.

Wrenching his gaze from the treasure gripped in his hand, he met Dugald’s sharp gaze, then looked into the girl’s worried face. “Where did ye get this?” Even to himself, his voice sounded deeper, menacing, and he wasn’t surprised when the girl took a cautious step backward and glanced away.

He followed her gaze to his mother’s monument, then looked back at her again. “Ye dug it up.”

She glanced around. “Uh... maybe we could go somewhere to talk?”

“Come wi’ me.” Crown in one hand, he grasped her wrist with the other, and tugged her behind him as he strode toward the castle road, Dugald following behind.

She ran after him, trying to keep her balance. “Okay, I’m coming.”

His mouth pressed into a thin, tight line. He might not believe in witches, but he had no difficulty at all believing in thieves.

~~~

MacGregor held the crown in one hand and Samantha’s wrist in the other as he dragged her away.

Frankly, even if she wasn’t having a major fangirl moment, she was glad to go. Good riddance to Willie and the do-nothings.

They fast-walked up the hill toward the castle and she quickly lost her breath, making her grateful he tugged her along. She needed the help. But she was starting to think the guy had an attitude problem. His hand was tight on her wrist, his mouth pressed into a thin line, his jaw thrust forward. All in all, he seemed pretty angry.

However, she wasn’t afraid, she realized. Not exactly. Apparently when a guy saved a girl from a slavering mob, it formed a bond of instant trust.

She glanced at the crown swinging in his other hand with each step. She needed to get it back, but that wasn’t her top priority at the moment. The fact that she was in the 13th century and Ian MacGregor had just faced down an entire village and saved her life was sort of distracting her. If she wasn’t getting so breathless, she’d sigh over his hard, generous muscles, his vivid green eyes, and broad cheekbones. He was tall, well over six feet, with dark stubble covering his wide jaw and cleft chin, his dark shoulder-length hair thick with a slight wave. The man was devastatingly handsome: masculine, fascinating, sigh-worthy. Her heart thumped. She knew she needed to get hold of herself, but it was
Ian Freaking MacGregor!

At least she was pretty sure it was. He’d said so. And she could see Inverdeem Castle up ahead, with a fully restored turret on the south side. Or rather, the original turret in all its former...er...
current
glory. She’d been there enough times to recognize the layout. Either someone had fully restored the castle, turret and all—like that would ever happen—or she was now in Medieval Scotland.

So it had to be him. He’d been described as a giant of a man. Check. Dark-haired in a clan known for their red. Check. Muscular, powerful, and well-built. Check. The guy could stand in for Hercules any day of the week. Brilliant green eyes. Check, and swoon. Even the five o'clock shadow didn’t detract in the least.

She’d already been a fangirl of his. Had thought it such a shame that the brave, wonderful, strong, handsome, loyal man had died at the age of twenty-nine. Still, even though she knew, she had to be sure. She’d just ask him for a few more details. Just as soon as she could catch her breath and—

“What are ye starin’ at, lass?”
He practically snarled the words and she started. But she’d excuse him on account of what he’d been through this day. Her rescue couldn’t have been easy on him—not after his mother had been burned as a witch. And having to take her side against his own people had obviously left him discombobulated. “Are there a lot of Ian’s living here about?”

His dark brows slammed together. “A handful. What of it?”

“Just to be clear, are you Ian MacGregor, the son of Sinclair MacGregor, and the late bodyguard to King Alexander?”

His eyes narrowed on her as his grip on her wrist tightened. “
I’ll
ask the questions here. I’ll start with, who the devil are ye?”

“Samantha Ann Ryan.”

“Samantha.” Her name rolled off his tongue, the R in Ryan becoming a syllable in itself, and she about died at his musical accent and deep, bottomless voice, and that curl to his lips.

She sighed. Nodded. “Yes. And you’re Ian, correct?”

He stopped and she noted he still wasn’t the least bit breathless from their journey up the road. Her own breath hitched as she stared straight up into his handsome face, her favorite historical figure come to life, his—

“Ye’ve a message for me, then? Is that it?” He lifted the crown he carried in his other hand. “King Alexander has sent you?”

She shook her head to clear it. “Oh. Well, not exactly.”

Clear green eyes narrowed again. “Then what, exactly?”

She had to stop staring at the guy. Anyway, what was she supposed to tell him? That she’d studied his life years from now, in the future? That she’d somehow discovered a wormhole, or time travel, or...or crown travel with Jerry? That she was the only person to find the crown after he’d buried it all those years ago? And that the link between them was making her feel star-struck and needy and possessive? He’d consider her crazy and a thief. She
felt
crazy. And, if she was being honest, she
was
a thief. But if not the truth, then what was she supposed to say? “Um...see...the thing is—”

“Aye?”

“Uh...the thing is I can’t really tell you anything right now,” she finished lamely.

“At least tell me how you knew where to find the crown? Were you watching me? If so, how? I buried it on the darkest of nights. Not even my most trusted man knows the location. I dinna believe in witches. But if I did, I’d think you’d scried for it.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “I didn’t scry, use divination, or a crystal ball. I studied.”

“Studied what?”

“Er...you,” she blurted.

“Me?” He stared at her, long and hard. “I dinna take yer meaning.”

“Look,” she gestured toward his left hand. “I’m going to need that crown back. Just to check something. Then we can talk, okay?”

He shot her a narrow-eyed, suspicious look, then dragged her through the open castle gates, and they passed through a thriving community, many who stopped what they were doing to stare at her. Two boys mucking out stables crossed themselves, and a girl carrying a bucket of water toward the open kitchen doors ran, spilling the contents as she looked at Samantha over her shoulder. Samantha could see meat roasting on a spit and could smell bread baking. Dogs wandered about, and adults gaped, open-mouthed, as they sidled past.

Ian dragged her inside the castle doors and she glanced around at the stone walls, the lit candles.

She could see through to the hall with its numerous tables and benches. She breathed in the sights and smells. She’d been in the ruins of this fortress numerous times and it always had the slightly hollow feel of a place long deserted. But not anymore.

Two servants shuffled past carrying platters. A child and a dog followed in their footsteps, all of them staring. She was excited to see an arched alcove and window off to the right, long gone in the future, the craftsmanship simply speculated about.

This was so cool!

Ian still had hold of her wrist, his skin warm against hers, and he tugged her along behind him and up the stairs. She followed, taking everything in. He dragged her down a long hallway, then up another flight and she realized they were headed toward the tower. In the future, it was half-crumbled. She couldn’t wait to see it in its original form.

He opened the door and gestured her inside. Yes. Another set of stairs. If they kept climbing she might get an incredible view.

The door slammed shut behind her, and, as she whirled around, she heard the click and snap of metal latching.

Iron bars barricaded the window. Prison bars, through which she easily saw Ian heading downstairs. “Wait. You are
so
not leaving me here.”