Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (25 page)

They stood, sharing heat and comfort, as Ian slowly calmed.

He needed to get some answers to his questions about the crown, find out who Samantha’s people were, and send her home. He’d have to accompany her. With hair like hers, she’d not last a day before some frightened simpleton killed her. The thought of her dead...his jaw clenched and his hold tightened for a moment before he reluctantly pulled away and started walking again.

That was, of course, what he should do. Send her on her way. But he wasn’t sure he would. If he waited long enough, the snow might fall. Then it would be too late. She’d have to stay until the spring at the very least.

In the meanwhile, he’d have to watch her closely. Not exactly a hardship, he admitted. His gaze landed on the freshly picked berries, tied in a handkerchief and carried by a young girl. It gave him an idea. While he might not be willing to take her anywhere for the moment, but on the morrow, when the sun was high again, mayhap it was time he did something about that hair.

~~~

At midday the next afternoon, with the sun high in the sky, Samantha lifted her bare feet from the river and pulled her knees close. Sitting on the shore in a borrowed brown dress, she shivered. “It feels slimy and cold.”

Ian, lying in the tall grass a couple of feet away, eyes closed, arms crossed behind his head, didn’t move. “I’ve no doubt it is.”

A moment later Samantha sighed. “I’m hungry.”

Ian chuckled, the sound deep and low, making her shiver, but he still didn’t open his eyes. “Aye. We’ll go have a bite in a while.”

A few minutes later Samantha squirmed, trying to get comfortable on the grass. “My dress itches.”

Ian sighed. “Then take it off. I was simply trying to preserve your modesty, but if ye have none, then be done wi’ it.”

Samantha turned a narrow-eyed gaze onto him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Ian finally cracked an eye and grinned. “I would, indeed.”

Samantha sighed, put her feet in the cold water again, and wiggled her toes. The water sluiced over them and she dug her heels into the dark mud. “How much longer does it have to stay on?”

“Another few minutes should do the trick. We don’t wish to rinse it off before the stain takes, do we? ’Twould be a waste of berries.”

Samantha glanced at him. “This better work,” she said darkly. Not wanting to dye her hands, she resisted the urge to itch her goopy head. Ian had mashed the berries and spread the mixture and had the stained purple hands to prove it. “Are you sure about this? Purple is just blue and red, so what if it simply turns out more red?”

“It won’t. But I suppose if it does, it’ll prove you’re a witch.”

She flicked water on him.

He flinched, chuckled and settled more comfortably on the ground. “Don’t blame me. All I know is I had to do aught about your hair before it gets you killed. Or would you rather shave the whole mass off and be done wi’ it? We could tell my clan you’d had a sudden bout of fever.”

Samantha shot him another dark look. “Try it, buster and see what happens.”

Ian laughed, opened his eyes, and studied her. “I don’t know what you’re so cross about. I gave up pie for you. And look at this.” He lifted his hands, stained from mashing the berries and spreading the mixture in her hair.

The purple stains did look strange covering his large hands in uneven patches.

“Are you sure you didn’t drip any onto my face?”

Ian crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes once more. “Ungrateful wretch. It would serve you right if I’d dotted your nose. The next time some great fool wishes to color your hair, I hope you find the gumption to tell him no.”

She growled a sound of frustration. “I don’t seem to be very good at that, do I? Any fool who comes along and wants to change my hair color—and I fall for it like a fish on a hook.”

Ian cracked an eye open again.
“I’m
trying to help you.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

Ian lay with his eyes closed, and his arms crossed behind his head, and it gave her the perfect opportunity to study him. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight. His tanned face and broad cheeks, his long lashes. Mm. He was incredibly handsome. Even in repose his wide shoulders and muscular physique showed to advantage. His long tanned legs, thick with muscle, stretched out and crossed. He was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him. Almost.

“I feel your gaze on me, lass.”

She was embarrassed for a moment, then shrugged. “I can’t help it. You’re pretty to look at.”

She could see his cheeks turning pink and she chuckled and decided to lay it on thicker. “So big, so strong, and handsome,” she purred.

“Enough! Silence yourself and look toward the river.”

Sighing, she did so, and splashed her feet in the water. “Spoilsport.”

He snorted.

Just when she wondered if he’d truly fallen asleep, he finally sat up. “All right, then. Let’s see what we’ve wrought.” He arranged her so she sat on the edge of the shore, her back to the water. He sat facing the river and submerged his feet. He pulled her close, hoisted her upon his lap, and slowly bent her backward. His strength as he gently tilted her, one arm clutching her back, the other her head, was impressive, making her feel light as a feather. Add to that, his nearness, the way she was wrapped so tightly in his arms, the warmth emanating off him, and it all left her breathless. He lowered her until her head touched water.

Samantha stiffened. “It’s cold.”

“Move closer,” he murmured. “I’ll warm you, right quick.”

She laughed.

He rinsed her hair, one hand rubbing the strands as his other arm kept her reclined. It was a vulnerable position, and the feel of his body, those big fingers moving on her scalp, his thighs supporting her back—she swallowed, and deliberately looked up at the blue sky, rather than into his face, so close to her own.

“Lean back a bit further, then.” His voice was low, a quiet rumble as he lowered her.

She obediently wiggled further onto his lap so he could dunk more of her head into the water. It wasn’t so cold now. She was getting used to it. When he started massaging her scalp, the pads of his fingers digging, stroking, she went boneless, her eyes slid shut, and she broke out in goosebumps, nerve ending flaring to life.
“Mm.
That feels
wonderful.”

“Aye,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse. “I like the feel of you in my arms, at my mercy.”

She opened her eyes. His face was directly above hers. If he lowered his head they’d be kissing again. Her breath caught as they looked into each others’ eyes, and her mouth tingled with heightened sensitivity.

His hand stilled and he slowly pulled her part way up, only to breathe in sharply, turn his head, and wring out her hair. A moment later he helped her stand, then climbed off the river bank himself.

He straightened and blew out a harsh breath.

Feeling suddenly shy, slightly disappointed, she shivered as the water dripped down the back of her dress. She leaned sideways, wrung out her hair and asked, “Well? How does it look?”

His expression was dubious.

“’Tis darker, anyhow.” He hurried to help her squeeze the mass. “I suppose we’ll have to wait for it to dry to be sure.” His brow furrowed and he looked worried.

Samantha’s mouth parted. “What? Why do you have that expression on your face?”

Ian stepped back—lowered his gaze—rubbed at his neck. “I don’t think ’tis red anymore.”

“What color is it?” Samantha lifted her hair into the direct sunlight. It simply looked wet.

“Mayhap the color of berries? When it dries it’ll no doubt look a bit more brown.”

“Are you saying it’s purple?”

Ian backed away. His cheeks sucked in and it looked like he was trying not to smile. “Perhaps a wee bit.”

She tried to squeeze more water out of it, lifted it again into direct sunlight. Even wet, she could see the purple hue. She looked to see him pressing his lips together. “I can’t believe I let you do this. When am I going to learn?” Her eyes narrowed on his lips, pressed tight. “I have to kill you now. You know that, right?”

Laughter exploded from Ian and he backed away, purple hands raised. “Berry colored is better than sinful red though, right? And anyhow, dinna I tell you to stop letting strange men put colors in your hair?”

Samantha, mouth set, picked up a large stick and started after him. “You’re a dead man, McGregor. A dead man walking.”

Laughing, he turned and ran.

Dropping the stick she picked up one of her shoes and hurled it at him.

He dodged and it missed. Laughing, he snagged it off the ground and held it up, a challenge.

She flung her other shoe and he sidestepped, but it hit his arm and he managed to juggle it in the air for a moment before capturing it. “Oh, ho! I’ve got me some new shoes. Think you they’ll fit?”

She ran at him and he rounded a small tree. She dodged one way, but still laughing, he kept the tree between them and she couldn’t get to him. “Give them back.”

He grinned, watched her with glittering eyes, and moved as she moved.

She tried not to let him see her smile, but who knew The MacGregor had it in him to play like this? She lunged, then winced, as she feigned a sticker and lifted her foot. “Ow! My foot!”

He warily rounded the tree and she jumped him. “Gotcha!”

Laughing, he let himself be taken down and they ended up on the ground with her half-sprawled on his chest. “Faker,” he said. “Now you’ve got me, what will you do wi’ me?”

Heat radiated off him. Power. His chest was warm and thick with muscle. She looked at his lips, reached out and rubbed her index finger against his soft mouth.

He kissed her finger.

She shivered, and studied his gloriously handsome face. The green eyes, tanned skin, the hard line of his jaw, all invited her to touch. She’d like to kiss him senseless was what she’d like to do—had been thinking about another kiss since the incident in the chapel. But what she said was, “Too bad you ruined my hair. If you hadn’t, I might have kissed you.”

“You look like you want to kiss me anyhow.” His voice was deep, velvety, tempting. “I’ll not stop you if it’s advantage-takin’ yer after.”

“You won’t stop me, huh?”

“Aye. Just to be polite, ye see.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, polite is it then?” She mocked his Scottish accent with a fake one of her own.

He laughed.

She twisted her body and shoved against his chest to get up and he swiftly sat and wrapped his arms around her, trapping her arms. Side by side they faced each other.

She wiggled to get away, but not very hard. “Let me go,” she said breathlessly.
Ha.
She sounded like Marilyn Monroe. A child would know she didn’t mean it.

“Just one kiss, and then I’ll release you.”

She tilted her head, considering. “Well, maybe. Just to be polite.”

His eyes heated and he smiled. Gathering her closer, he lowered his mouth and kissed her, long and deep, his lips clinging to her own, and heating her blood. His mouth—warm, vital, and urgent—devastated her senses before he finally lifted his head. A quake ran through him and, breathing sharply, he let her go and stood.

He held out his hand, and helped her to her feet. “Shall we get some dinner, then?”

“Sure.” Her heart pounded in her chest and she tried to sound normal.

She put her shoes on, he found his boots, and they walked back toward the castle, neither of them speaking or touching.

Sudden shyness overwhelmed her. She’d seen Ian angry, suspicious, careful, and stern. But a teasing and playful Ian was hard to resist.

She sighed.

And so was a polite one.

Chapter Fourteen

Ian carried two tankards of ale into the keep. Earlier, he’d sent Samantha a new dress and couldn’t wait to see her in it. When he reached the hall, she wasn’t there, so he backed out again and waited. Leaning against the wall, holding the drinks while his men came to supper, each glance questioning his presence, left him feeling a fool. He gave up the gallant gesture and took his seat at the head table.

He grabbed his blade and sharpened it, waved off the women bringing food around, and when Samantha finally came downstairs nearly half an hour later, pretended a nonchalance he didn’t feel as he studied the blade that was now sharp enough to cut leather. As she approached, he glanced up, and was lucky he didn’t cut himself.

She was stunning. The green gown was perfectly set against her white skin and silky dark hair. He missed the red, but was glad he’d colored it. In the darkness of the hall the tresses seemed a rich brown. Her beautiful dark eyes, warm with welcome, met his, and his foolish heart sped its pace.

He jumped up, crossed the room, and playfully crooked his elbow. “My lady.”

“You’re staring.” She took his arm and touched her hair self-consciously. “Does it look all right?”

“Just like all the other girls now.”

She cocked a brow. “So I’m not special anymore?”

He took in her skin, lips, the ironic expression. Felt the heat from her hand warming his arm, making his blood rush. Oh, she was special all right. Concerned he’d make a fool of himself, wishing they were alone, he didn’t comment. He seated her next to him, and signaled a serving girl. “After dinner we’ll take that tour you wished for.”

“Tour?”

He lifted a brow.

“Ah, yes, of course, the tour. How could I forget the tour you never mentioned?”

“Old age?”

Her dark eyes flashed. “Oh, you charmer. I come downstairs in a new dress with a new hair color, and what do I get? Praise? Compliments? A man bowled over by my beauty?” She sighed. “Nothing so flattering. I’m simply told I’m ordinary and declining. It’s nice to have a man around to keep my feet on the ground.”

Quinn, seated nearby, chuckled. “You’re as fair as a spring day, Lady Samantha. The loveliest flower in any field.”

She dipped her head. “Thank you.”

Ian glared at the man, making him laugh.

Cook approached with a trencher of food and set it between him and Samantha before nodding once and heading back to the kitchen.

“Yer feet are on the ground, lass. If you dinna know this, ’tis obvious you do need me around to tell you such things.”