Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (8 page)

She glanced down at her dress, but it was modest and covered every inch of her. What was the man talking about?

There were murmurs of agreement and, as they studied her, actual fear on the faces of the men, women, and children moving closer. Most women hid their children behind their skirts.

She swallowed again.
The 13th century?

Samantha shook her head, putting that thought aside. “You’ve got it all wrong. Jerry and I are colleagues, competitors. Sometimes things get a little heated. Tell them, Jerry.” Samantha looked to the tree-line, but he was nowhere to be seen. She glanced at the crowd, pressing closer, and felt a trill of fear race up her spine.
“Jerry?”
she yelled, unable to believe he’d left her. She could only hope he’d gone for help.

The man holding her pressed her forward and spoke for the first time. “Come, witch,” the man’s deep voice was slightly breathless, fear lacing his tone. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we put an end to yer miserable existence.”

She kicked back at him with her running shoes and he squeezed her tight, cutting off her air until she stopped. “Okay.” She gasped. “Okay. But I’m
not
a witch. And I’m certainly not living a miserable existence. I like my life just fine.” They were taking this way too far. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have rights, you know. I insist on talking to the person in charge.”

She looked at the grizzled man in front of her, at his sinister, hostile expression, and really hoped it wasn’t him.

Another man, this one thin and anxious, stepped forward to confer in Gaelic with the two in front of her. The way they gestured toward her made her nervous.

Were they trying to frighten her? Teach her a lesson? If so, she was learning it really well. Never, ever trespass on MacGregor land. These people were crazy.

The crowd watched—interest, fascination, and fear in their gazes.

The three men ended their conversation and the old guy straightened importantly, his chest puffed out. “Witches have no rights.”

Apparently that was all the man behind her needed to hear. He shoved her forward again, closer to the monument, closer to the guys playing cut-and-stack-the wood just beyond.

“Wait!” She tried to resist the immovable object behind her and the guy actually stopped. “I’m not a witch.” Desperation tinged her voice. “Just because you say I am does not make it so. Anyway, why are we arguing about this? There are no such things as witches.”

“Nae such things?” The old man repeated, his tone full of scorn. “Only a witch would make such a claim.”

She struggled again. “Let me go. Do you guys know how freaky you’re being?” She tried to shake off the man’s grasp, but he simply shoved her forward, through the crowd of people who scurried back, women pulling their children and skirts aside, as if fearful of contamination. “Look, can I please talk to someone in charge? Don’t I have that right?”

“Himself does no’ have time for the likes of ye. Think ye to fool us?” The old guy’s lips curled, showing missing and yellowed teeth. “Look to your hair, your dress. ’Tis obvious ye serve the dark one. Hair that color could only have come from the realms of Satan himself.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the gathering crowd.

“Or from a bottle of hair dye,” she said loudly, deciding to withhold the fact that it was called Hades Red. “Look. Some guy I had never met was hired to color my hair. Normally it’s more like,” she looked around and spotted an auburn-haired teen. She jutted her chin forward. “That boy’s hair color. This is supposed to fade quickly back to my natural shade.”

The old man’s stone-faced expression said he didn’t really care. “What of your dress? Only a temptress of Satan would wear a gown that reveals her enticements.”

Enticements? She finally noted the other ladies in the crowd wore loose fitting clothes. Who were these people? Religious fanatics? She could literally feel herself sweating with fear. “I didn’t choose this dress. It was selected for me, just like the hair color. I may have come here without an invitation,” she thought that sounded better than trespassing and theft. “But I’m innocent of consorting with Satan, I can tell you that for certain. Now, again, I have to ask, who is in charge here?”

“The MacGregor is in charge, but we dinna wish to disturb him over such a small matter.”

She let out a breath. The MacGregor. Okay. Good. Someone else in charge was wonderful news. Hopefully the man had a little more sense. “My life is not a small matter to me. And you don’t know for sure how the laird will feel about your accosting me. You could get in big trouble for something like this.
Big trouble.”
She stressed.

“Laird MacGregor is like to be hard wi’ ye.” The thin, anxious man spoke up. “He isna a merciful man. He’ll likely be glad to see you burnt so as to keep ye from causing trouble to the land. Better that we should just end yer existence quickly and mercifully.”

She wracked her brain to try and remember what, if anything, she knew about the current Laird MacGregor, but came up blank. As usual, she’d been much more interested in the past than in the present. But what she did clearly hear was that they didn’t want Laird MacGregor finding out they were about to commit murder. Even if the anxious man was right, and it was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire—in this case literally—what did she care? Either way she was cooked. This way gave her more time to figure something out.

“Bring her,” the old guy stated, his tone implacable.

“Wait. Wait a minute,”
she shrieked as she was manhandled forward again. “Get Laird MacGregor!”

The man at her back stopped again. “Willie, mayhap we should—”

“Listen not to the trickery of witches.”

“Willie, sir.” Samantha made her voice as placating as possible. “If you could please just—”

“Silence. Bring her.”

As if to make up for his doubt, the man at her back shoved her past the monument to Ian MacGregor's mother. She could see the birds carved into the side of the rock, clear, deep, and fresh. She could see the base at the east side with very little grass, the dirt undisturbed.

Fear and begging for her life had kept her from analyzing the 13th century comment, but really, what was going on here?

She looked up the road to see the castle, what she could spot of it anyway, hidden by trees the way it was. The glimpse didn’t tell her much.

She quickly considered the facts as she knew them.

First, she’d found the crown. Second, she’d fought with Jerry. Third, Jerry had placed the crown on his head. Fourth, night had turned into day. Fifth, the monument was different, newer. Sixth, the same monument was now in the middle of a medieval village. She knew for a fact that there hadn’t been a village here before. Not for centuries, anyway. And seventh, she was about to be burned alive if she didn’t think her way out of this.

She analyzed the area. It looked authentic. It smelled authentic. So, she was in the same location, different time of day, and, from the looks of the crops and vegetation, a different time of year.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think she and Jerry had time traveled to the past.

She tried to scoff at the notion.

Time travel was impossible. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t like she’d studied the science or anything, but she was in intelligent woman. She’d certainly have heard about time travel if it was available.

And yet...all the facts fit.

On the other hand, they might not have heard anything about it if it meant people just time traveled and ended up elsewhere, burnt as witches, never to be seen again. If she and Jerry didn’t turn up, they might simply be written off as victims of foul play.

If she really had traveled through time, if this actually was the 13th century, could that mean Ian MacGregor,
her
Ian MacGregor, was Laird? Doubtful. The guy had only been laird for three or four months.

Was she going insane? Was she buying into this madness?

She was pulled to a stop in front of the freshly dug hole, deep, but small in diameter.

She swallowed hard. There was no way this could end well.

~~~

Three men set a debarked tree pole in the hole, then gestured her forward.

She fought as the man at her back pushed her. “Let go of me! You have
no
right.”

Three men subdued her and she didn’t stand a chance. They quickly tied her to the pole. Wood and straw were briskly shoved around her feet, scraping and poking at her legs. It seemed like everyone in the village helped. Again, the phrase
out of the frying pan and into the fire
came to mind.
These people truly were going to burn her.

She felt her body break out in a cold sweat as she glanced helplessly around at the pressing crowd. She realized she was crying, her lips and chin trembling. They couldn’t do this. People just didn’t do this. “I...I demand to see Laird MacGregor. Laird
Ian
MacGregor.”

The men stacking wood seemed to pause. Several looked toward the old man, Willie, who shook his head. “Listen not to the tricks of this Jezebel.”

Did that mean they knew him? “Please, stop this. You’re making a huge mistake. Huge.” She saw a man holding the crown up to the sunlight, watching the gold and the jewels sparkle. As it was Ian MacGregor who’d buried the crown under the monument, and if she’d actually traveled through time using the thing, maybe Ian MacGregor was the draw? Maybe he really was here? Tourney winner, champion; if anyone could save her, he could. A desperate girl could hope, right?

A man walked across the square with a burning torch and fear made her voice shrill as words spewed out of her before she knew what she was going to say. “I was sent here by King Alexander III to deliver The Crown of Scotland to Laird Ian MacGregor, a man who protected the king and has earned his trust. If you kill me, if you prevent me from delivering not only the crown, but the message whispered to me directly from the king, he and Laird MacGregor, together, will burn this village and everyone in it to the ground!”

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.