Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (32 page)

“Samantha? Are you all right, lass?”

Granted, she’d always had a guilty crush on the guy, but this,
this
was different. This was getting to know the real man. Discovering
who
he was. Realizing she liked him, and felt as if she were bonding to him. Wishing it was always her he turned to with his problems and concerns.

Was she crazy? Did she even know what love was? She knew she didn’t want to leave him and missed him desperately even at the thought of it.

She thought of Gillian, who’d stayed here in the past with the man she loved. Could Samantha be happy here? Would it be the same for her? Would he even want her?

If he handed her the crown right at that moment, what would she do with it? Give it back to him? Tell him she wanted to stay? She thought about her grandfather. How much she missed him. Had he been able to hang on? If he’d gotten news of her disappearance...and if their conversation the day of her flight was to be the final one.

Grief pressed hard on her chest. She pictured him waiting for her, worrying when there was no word, fussing to the police. She didn’t think she could bear it if his last days on earth were filled with pain and concern.

And then there was Jerry. No doubt he was depending on her. As much as he was the biggest jerk she knew—sly, jealous, and underhanded—she could never leave him behind. Not with Mad Malcolm. The rest of his life would be a misery.

So, no. While she might actually be in love with Ian, she wasn’t staying here. She couldn’t. She had others depending on her and so she must go back. That was just the way it was. Still, she was filled with sadness and she tried to shake it off.

“Lass?”

“I’m fine. Just a little tired, I guess.” Blinking back tears, she glanced away from him as determination straightened her spine. For whatever time she had left, she was going to enjoy his company, savor being with him, and above all, keep him alive to the best of her ability.

~~~

The woman, Beth, snooped, riffling through the trunk. Lying open beside the chest was the little wooden box, gifted by Father upon learning to take the beatings in silence, like a good little beast. It held all my secret possessions. I shut the door.

Beth turned, a look of righteous indignation upon her face. “’Tis
you
.” She snatches up the box and lifts various packets of herbs and vials of potions. “’Tis been you all along.”

“What?”
Pretend to misunderstand, carefully twist the ring into place and open the top. “What have you found?” I approach Beth, and feign surprise, confusion. With gentleness, I touch Beth’s hand and press the needle into the skin.

Beth yanks her hand away and scratches herself, blood beading along the graze left by the spike. Beth ignores it and shakes the box. “You are the poisoner. I’ve been going room to room, searching for evidence of foul play. But
you
? I’m hoping to be proved wrong, of course, but I’m not mistaken, am I now? I’ve found these herbs among your belongings and I know what some are for. But
why
? Why would you do such a thing?”

“Do what thing? I doona understand your distress? What is that you hold?” This is simply delicious. While feigning concern, bewilderment, I touch her as I’ve done many times before and prick her other hand, pushing harder on the ring to release more poison. There...that’s enough.

Beth flinches and jerks her hand, her attention nailed to the bead of blood welling upon her skin. She glances at the scrape on the back of her other hand, and looks up, realization turning to horror.

“Oh, aye.” My smile cannot be contained. “’Tis me. I’ve been trying to kill Himself.”

“But why?”

“Because—” one must speak slowly to a simpleton, “—If he dies, all will be returned to its natural order, as it should have been, all along.”

Genuine confusion tugs at Beth’s face. “But no one wishes for that. ’Tis not right.”

One must strike a dumb beast so it will understand and learn. I swing openhanded and strike the side of her arm, pressing more poison through the linen sleeves. “What is right about a misborn coming here to lead us? I say nay.”

Beth’s hand covers her arm. “I will stop you.” She whispers, weak. Swaying, she drops the box and the contents spill. “Everyone will know.” She stumbles toward the door, and, halfway there, falls to her knees to rocks back and forth, rubbing the skin of one hand.

Good. Very good.

I approach, to comfort the dying beast. “None would believe ye anyway, my dearest. I would say the box wasna mine, but placed there by the witch.” A sigh. “Just as the last laird and his family all died of fever, all will believe your heart gave way. None will suspect me of aught.”

Beth begins swaying. Gasps, horrified, and in anguish.

Exultant, the display stirs my delight and excitement. Beth’s every move, every expression, a joy to behold.

“The clan admired you so,” Beth panted.

“O’ course they did, they
do
. I took care of them all. I should be much admired.”

Beth let out a sob. “I feel weak.”

“Dinna fight it. ’Tis somethin’ new I’ve concocted and, while it works quickly on the cats, I’m curious to see how well it works on you. I intend to use it on Himself upon his return home. He’s too clever by half at avoiding my brews, but the prick of a pin is much more certain, d’ye not think?”

“Poison,” wheezed Beth. “Must tell him.” She falls forward, limp, and lands upon her face.

I tisk at her clumsiness, but kneel and offer comfort. “There is aught you can do to save yourself, or anyone else for that matter, I assure you. Many must die that Inverdeem might thrive.”

The side of Beth’s face presses to the floor and she chokes and drools, but she tries to push her arms beneath herself to rise again. I delight in her struggles. Her hands flop awkwardly to her sides. She tries to lift her head but cannot. “T
oorrii,”
She moans, slurring her daughter’s name.

I pet her hair as she leaves this world. “Aye, Tori must go. I will miss you, though. You’re very talented at housekeeping and organizing the staff. You keep every area comfortable, which I appreciate.” Another sigh. “Why did you have to meddle?”

Beth’s breathing ceases and she dies, quickly and efficiently—just like a good little beast.

With a wet a handkerchief, I gently wipe the blood from Beth’s hands, the foam from the corners of her mouth, the drool puddled on the floor. Thus, I restore her dignity. Such a worthy friend am I.

I check that no one is outside the door, and pull Beth into the hallway. It’s a simple matter to set her hand to her chest as if she’d clutched her heart as she died.

I set everything to rights again, leave the keep, and wait for Beth to be discovered.

All that remains is to wait for Himself to return home.

~~~

It was almost full dark when they finished setting up camp. Brecken still hadn’t arrived and Ian had to admit he worried for the lad. Not that he could do anything about it at the moment. Even if it were morning he wouldn’t split his men and risk the crown to go after him. They’d return home first, then deal with Brecken’s situation. The young man was most likely waylaid at Stirling, where girls and entertainments abounded. If Ian sent men and they found such, Brecken’s life would surely be forfeit. Well, mayhap not forfeit, but certainly his face bashed up a bit. ’Twas better to worry for the lad and naught more.

Ian approached the pair of men on first watch. “Stay sharp. ’Tis likely we are followed. I want no surprises this night.”

Next he found Dugald, deeper in the trees, as was usual. “I’ll take first watch.”

Dugald’s eyes narrowed. “You never take first watch.”

Ian glowered at him, glanced at the tent where Samantha was bundled for the night, and thought about the soft looks she’d sent his way throughout the day. Staying outside was for the best. “I’ll take it tonight.”

Dugald shrugged, unwrapped the blanket from around his shoulders, and handed it to Ian before heading to the tent to try and get a few hours’ sleep.

Ian moved silently through the trees. He listened closely, but heard nothing more than the usual shifting, stirring, and murmuring of men. Most had settled for the night. Besides the two other guards, a few still spoke softly around the dying fire.

In truth, he didn’t trust himself alone with Samantha. His emotions ran too high around her and, after traveling for the day, he couldn’t be alone with her and not pull her into his arms. He heard her laugh and realized she must be talking with Dugald.

Yearning tightened his chest—
he
should be with her—earning her smiles and laughter, hearing her funny stories and interests. Turning, he prowled further into the trees. It unnerved him that leaving her with Dugald, his most trusted friend, didn’t set well with him.

He admitted it. He had feelings for the girl. Strong ones.

His jaw tightened and his fingers clenched on the blanket. Blast it. What was it about her? Why was her pull so strong? What was she doing to him? He’d never felt this way about another. Her beauty was captivating, surely, but he’d seen better at both the English and Scottish courts.

He sighed. Nay, he had not.

And it wasn’t just her beauty. It was everything. The sound of her voice, her laugh, her amber eyes when they lit with teasing or merriment. Her inquisitiveness and love of stories, past, present, and future. Even her silly berry hair. Would that he truly did believe her a witch. Then he could blame witchcraft for this spell she seemed to have effortlessly cast upon him.

Which reminded him—he desired acceptance and respect from his people, and had worked hard toward that goal. An accused witch was the
last
lady he should take to wife. Especially one who was easily kidnapped, told stories about the future, and knew of things she should not.

He sighed.
Wife?

He wrapped the blanket about his shoulders and settled back against a tree. He truly did have it bad.

Chapter Nineteen

Jerry tensed as he saw a line of horses snaking into the village, Mad Malcolm returning home with his entourage of men. Things had been much better with him gone. Everyone had been more relaxed, kinder, the food more generous.

Jerry scrambled behind a barrel and noticed he wasn’t the only searching for a hiding spot. Men, women, and children ducked into doorways, behind buildings, and ran for the keep. Lady, his new shadow, came to investigate, pressing her nose into his neck, whimpering slightly, and he shushed her and pulled her close. For long minutes he watched from his hiding spot against the brewery wall as Mad Malcolm rode across the courtyard and finally dismounted. The man paced, and immediately started the ranting thing again like a man unhinged. In the 21
^st
century, the guy would have been locked in a psych ward years ago.

Clutching Lady close, he peered around the barrel, sensing something was about to happen. Dread simmered in his gut.

“Jerry!”
Mad Malcolm called his name with that weird pronunciation and Jerry pressed his back against the wall, hid his face in the curve of the barrel, and didn’t move—like a wild animal, hunted, instinctively knowing movement could bring death. “I wish for my seer!
Now!”

Seriously? Jerry cringed behind the barrel as Lady licked his chin. The moment the guy returned home he wanted to see him? Shouldn’t he want a nap? Something to eat to take the edge off his temper?

Frankly, he didn’t dare disobey. If he did, it would only get worse for him. It would be better to come out of hiding himself than to have someone point him out and drag him from his hiding spot. Taking a deep breath, he shooed Lady away, forced himself from behind the barrel, scrambled awkwardly to his feet, and then hurried forward. “Here I am.” The words came out weaker than he’d intended. “I’m here.”

When he reached the laird, he threw himself to his knees and looked at the ground before someone had the chance to force him to do both.

When Mad Malcolm didn’t say a word, Jerry felt sweat break out under his newly grown beard. Finally, he shot a quick glance upward to see Mad Malcolm studying him, his weird eyes focused intently. Jerry quickly lowered his gaze and his chest constricted.

“Laird MacGregor had a lady with him,” Mad Malcolm finally spoke. “She’d hair the color of elderberry wine. Answer me truly. Who is she?”

Could it be Samantha? Jerry had no idea what color elderberry wine was, but if the girl’s hair was worth noting, couldn’t it be her? And she was alive? A cautious relief started to bloom in his chest, allowing him to breathe again. He glanced up, then quickly down. “What did she look like?”

“Tall for a woman, wi’ hair that glowed in the sunlight. She spoke much as you do.”

Relief gripped him so strongly that hot tears rushed to his eyes and a sob burst from his chest.

“You know this girl?”

Jerry, realizing he’d given himself away, flinched. He wouldn’t wish this man on his most hated enemy, and while he and Samantha had their differences, hers was the face he’d most like to see in the world at that moment. But surely she was safe or this madman would have stolen her away. Cautiously, he nodded.

“Who is she?”

Jerry tried to think of something that would dispel Malcolm’s interest. Or at least frighten the superstitious git. “She’s a wise woman, much-feared among those in the know.”

Quick as a snake, Malcolm grasped Jerry’s chin and forced him to meet his gaze. “And you are my seer, are you not? A male, bigger and stronger.”

“Yes.” Jerry grimaced—he didn’t sound bigger and stronger—he sounded weak. “But the lady is strong too.”

“I sense you havna told me all.”

“I have. I swear it.”

“Why did you not warn me a wise woman would be at Stirling? That Laird MacGregor had possession of one? Why did my powerful seer not advise me of such?”

Jerry desperately wanted to jerk his chin away. “She is powerful.” He swallowed. “She is able to hide herself from me.”

Malcolm released Jerry’s chin and turned and walked a few paces away. “You compel my hand. If you doona tell me what I wish to know, then I must force the issue.”