When Lightning Strikes (2 page)

Sarah nodded as Ariana walked to the door and smiled once more at her daughter before closing it.

Sarah undressed, took off her engagement ring and set it on the nightstand next to the coin, and headed to the bathroom for the welcome warmth of the shower. After coming back, drying off, and getting dressed in a gauzy silk nightgown, she combed out her wavy hair so it could air-dry.

She looked out the patio door thinking some fresh air might do her some good. Remembering her promise to her mother, she picked up the coin from where it sat next to her diamond. This was ridiculous! She started to put it back down on the table, but changed her mind and decided she would take it with her. Ah, what the hell…maybe it would bring some good luck! A little passion couldn’t hurt either, although she couldn’t imagine David being anything like that.

He was a level headed and sensible guy without any wild ideas or shoot-from-the-hip attitude. He approached everything in life with well-planned out intention and it was comforting.

Opening the door, she stepped outside into the cool night air and began to walk up to the top of the hill behind the house to the ancient tree that stood there.

The old tree looked gnarled and almost frightening in the moonlight, but at the same time it was beautiful, in a primeval sort of way. Legend held that it had been a hanging tree centuries ago and its gruesome history added to its forbidding character. She reached the top of the small hill and looked back down at the light coming from the bedroom window and smiled at the warm, inviting sight. She would miss the security and comfort of living at home with her parents. But then again, there was the excitement of moving into the beautiful house that she and David would call home.

She sighed as she reached out and touched the dry bark of the old tree. She had everything a girl could wish for – a family who loved her and a wonderful future with a great guy.

She looked down as the moonlight glinted off of the medallion she still held. She smiled to herself, glad that she had listened to her mother and kept it with her because in that moment she really
did
realize that her heart’s desire was to be with David and to be thankful for all the blessings life had given her!

She started make the move to walk back down the hill to the house, when without warning a frighteningly powerful gust of wind caught her hair. A split-second later, a bright beam of light shot from the coin in an arrow-straight path up to the sky. She gasped at the unearthly sight and before she even had time to think, the heavens themselves seemed to open up and a white-hot bolt of lightning streaked down from above in slow motion and shot right through her body.

Trying to run proved useless as she discovered her feet were frozen in place, held there by some eerie force. It felt as though all of the wind had been knocked from her lungs as she fell to the ground and as the blackness engulfed her she felt herself being sucked through a long dark tunnel into thin air. She tried to scream, but the sound would not come from her parched throat.

“
So, this is what it feels like to die,”
she thought in the last few seconds before she lost consciousness.

Chapter Two

Northern France, 1363 A.D.

It was well after midnight and the rain poured down in icy sheets against the canopies covering the Gypsy wagons that had been pulled into the safety of a small copse of trees. The strains of a lute and a ribald song, followed by hearty laughter filtered its way through the droning of the falling rain.

“Tim-and-I-a-hunting-went.

We-found-three-maidens-in-a-tent.

They-were-three-and-we-were-two.

I-bucked-one-and-Timbuktu!”

Dominic du Barbaronne, sat in the middle of the largest wagon surrounded by the men of his troupe as their laughter filled the air at the end of their bawdy song.

His long, blue-black hair was soaking wet and the lamplight flickered across his tawny skin. One of his thickly muscled arms was thrown around the neck of his nearest comrade and the humor of the moment sparkled in the depths of his silver-blue eyes. At twenty-eight, he was neither the eldest nor the youngest of this band of wanderers but at six feet and three inches, he was the tallest.  To his right, the young juggler Jean-Paul continued to sing the next verse of their drunken song until his head sagged and his eyelids gave way to the sleep which now beckoned.

Dominic was growing weary himself. “Enough! That is all I can stand for this night. Now go to sleep you drunken whoresons!” he yelled.

They laughed and settled themselves down to sleep off their drink as the rain began to slow and then stop as the sky above cleared and the moon shone down spreading its silver light across the countryside.

Dominic stared out through the opening of the back of
his wagon and out beyond the wagon where some of the women slept, into the darkness.

Not long ago, on a cold rainy night such as this, his beloved mother Mara, the leader of this troupe, had died. She had been well revered for her wisdom, her knowledge of medicines and her gift of foresight and she had taken great care to pass her knowledge of healing on to him from the time he had been a youth. With her passing, the troupe had come under his charge.

Although none were blood relatives, they were the only family he had ever known. He smiled as he looked about him, surveying the faces of the sleeping men. Each had their own talent and was as good at thieving as entertaining the nobles and townspeople who wandered by and watched them in each village or castle they visited themselves upon.

Jean-Paul, at six and ten winters of age, was as fine a juggler as he had ever seen. Marco, who was like a brother to him, could play almost any song known to exist on his lute. If he didn’t know a song that was requested he would gladly make one up that was better and bawdier.

Their women were good at what they did too. Shaia, one of the troupe’s dancers was as beautiful and exotic as one could ever dream of. With her soft skin, raven hair and almond-shaped eyes she would quickly captivate any man she danced for, and just as quickly relieve him of any gold coins he might be carrying. Then with a kiss and a wink, she would disappear like the wind. Her sister Fala was equally as beautiful was never far from sight and the two often worked together.

Dominic himself was talented as a juggler, a healer and the troupe leader.  But that was not what made him stand out from among the rest of them.

He was the unacknowledged bastard son of a knight. He had been scorned by his father’s people because he was a ‘filthy Gypsy’ and scorned by most Romany because not only was he was part gadge, as they called anyone who was not Romany…but he was also the son of one with wealth and power.

He wanted nothing to do with the pompous life of the nobles, but because the blood of a lord flowed through his veins,
many of his own kind treated him as if he did or might if given the chance. He would have nothing of it. His life out here with this troupe…
his
troupe, suited him just fine. They accepted each other and the only thing that truly mattered to Dominic was that all of them were basically good of heart even if they themselves didn’t know it sometimes.

A loud crash of thunder brought Dominic out of his sentimental stupor. A bolt of lightning struck an ancient gnarled tree at the top of one of the surrounding hills and split it right down the middle. A few of the men awoke from their slumber at that moment, and Dominic told them to settle back to their rest. He stooped low and walked to the back of the wagon and peered out to the top of the hill, for a better look.

Odd
, he thought.
The rain had stopped some time ago, and the sky overhead was now clear, so
why would there still be lightning and thunder crashing about?

A cloud of mist surrounded the base of the old tree and in its swirling shroud he saw the figure of a woman clad in a filmy white veil lying on the ground. He squinted and blinked in disbelief, waiting for his eyes to clear from the blinding stroke of lightning, but a few moments later, she was still lying there.

What would a half-clad woman be doing out on a night like this? Thinking she must be hurt, he quickly jumped out of the back of the wagon and raced towards the scorched tree to see if she was still alive. When he reached the top of the hill he approached her cautiously, knife in hand.

His breath caught within his throat at the sight of what lay before him. She looked like some kind of goddess or a nymph lying there in the wet moss with a mane of long, tawny colored curls spread out around her head like a halo. Her lashes were thick crescents, fanning out beneath her eyelids. She wore nothing except the filmy white garment that was now damp and translucent, revealing every lush curve of her body to him in the dim light of the full moon. Her skin was dusky colored and the garment was hiked up to reveal the shapely curve of her thigh. Her soft breasts peeked out from the top of the low-hanging neckline of her gown and by their rise and fall he knew she lived.

“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered to himself.

This could not be real. He had never seen material such as that which her garment was made of. She had a regal look about her with her smooth skin, and perfect features. None but a noblewoman… or a witch in some evil disguise could be
so beautiful as this. Had she been traveling, and been robbed by highwaymen? Did she run away from some domineering lord or a husband? Or was she indeed a witch sent here on some unholy mission against him?

God's blood, he did not believe in such nonsense but something made him look about the surrounding landscape as he crouched, ready for an attack by the demons that might be lying in wait. But none came.

At last he relaxed and looked back down at the woman at his feet. What was he to do? He couldn’t just leave her lying here. And he certainly did not wish to bring some pompous and pampered outsider back to camp and have to endure her endless whining until her family could come and retrieve her.

Then again, if she were a noble, her family would be willing to pay a hefty purse of gold for her safe return. In that case, it would be well worth enduring her undoubtedly shrewish tongue.

He cursed silently at the thought of playing watchman over some simpering female to keep the men from ravishing her, but knowing full well of their lusty appetites, it was a necessity if there was to be any hope of a reward from her people. The nobles would not want to pay for damaged goods. They were so self-serving they would not place her well-being as more important than her purity.

He drew in a ragged breath, dragged the wet length of his black mane back from his face and reached down to pick her up and carry her back to camp. As he pulled her close, the neck of her gown fell open further exposing the soft, roundness of the tops of her breasts. Feeling the warmth of her lush body pressed to his chest, he cursed aloud this time.

Who, by the Gods, was going to play watchman over
him
?

Chapter Three

Sarah was dreaming. She was on a boat with a cool ocean breeze gently blowing her hair. She could feel the boat slowly rocking to and fro as it sailed. She felt a pair of strong arms around her, cradling her close and she smiled.

David.
She snuggled in closer nuzzling her face into the curve of his strong neck and felt his thick, muscular shoulders tighten as she reached up to pull closer to him. They were on their honeymoon. Funny, but she couldn’t seem to remember the ceremony, the church or the flowers. And she couldn’t remember David’s shoulder ever feeling as hard and thick as this. She was having trouble remembering much of anything at this moment in time.

Images of darkness, thunder and lightning began to flood her dreams, washing away the scene before her. She began to awaken as she remembered standing beneath the ancient tree with the coin, when a bolt of lightning had come from nowhere and streaked painfully through her body. What had happened? Well, at least David had found her. He would take her back inside the house. She could feel the strength of his arms around her now and that breeze blowing against her face again only warmer this time.

Although her head was throbbing, she forced her burning eyes open. There looking down at her was the clearest, most sparkling pair of silver-blue eyes she had ever seen in her life. This was most certainly not David. It was someone though. Who was he? His hair was long, jet-black and wet, with glistening blue highlights. His skin looked like rich coffee with cream. His sensuous lips were full and a day-old growth of beard framed his square jaw line. Long lashes framed those incredible eyes. Eyes that could see into your soul. His face was…well, beautiful. There were simply no other words to describe him.

And she could feel now that he was carrying
her. His long strides were the ‘gentle rocking’ of her boat. The ‘balmy breezes’ was the warm breath of his exertion against the curve of her cheek. She moaned and tried to lift her head to speak, but the words would not come. Pain shot through her and the throbbing in her head was incessant.

“Oh, God, I must be dead,”
she thought groggily
. “This is an angel. He is not pale and golden, but he is so beautiful. He must be carrying me to Heaven. To somewhere.”

But how could she be dead when she was still feeling so much pain? This she wondered before blissfully dropping back off to sleep in his arms.

Dominic slowed his strides. Seconds ago, she had opened her eyes and he noted that they were a pale golden color. Very unusual indeed. She looked frightened and confused for a moment or two and then tried to speak before drifting off again. He knew for certain in that moment that she had been injured and the telltale scorch mark on her gauzy shift spoke of the burn she had received from the lightning. She had managed to utter the word ‘angel’ before drifting back into her slumber.

“So,” he thought. “The witch speaks the language of the English.”

This was good. She was most likely a noble after all and would bring a fine reward.

He looked down at her again. Her complexion was not the usual milky-white of the pampered ladies of land and title. Perhaps she was of mixed lineage.
A Spaniard? Then again she was blonde so perhaps she was a Castellano. English nobility often made powerful political alliances through marital ties with other countries.

No matter, when she awakened, he would find out who she was and exactly where she had come from. For now, he had to get her to camp and tend to her injuries. In order for her to make a full recovery, he would have to keep her as quiet and safe as possible for at least a few days.  It would not be easy with the lecherous band he shared quarters with, but he would see to it that she did recover and was safely returned to her people. And, of course, the troupe would thank him later when their purses were well lined with gold pieces.

He regarded her face once more as she slept there in his arms, hating that he was compelled to do so.

The witch was startlingly beautiful, but there was something more. There was something about her soft features that spoke of sweetness and a certain innocence. He could see it in that brief moment when she had looked at him with those golden eyes of hers.

She had uttered the word ‘angel’ before losing consciousness. Did she think him some kind of savior? He laughed out loud at that one. But at the same time, a wave of protectiveness swept over him that he himself did not quite understand.

He spat out a vile oath before the feeling had even had a chance blossom within his chest. He was
a Romany, not some honor-bound, verse-spouting, prancing-assed knight. He was free to do as he wished and pleasure himself as he saw fit in this world. This was only some spoiled English damsel and neither she nor any other
femme
would ever have any more hold over him than that of a simple night of carnal pleasure.

With that thought still in mind, he marched the last few feet into camp and walked up to the back of the wagon where his men slept. He stepped up over the side, still carrying her in his arms, and began kicking each man awake with the toe of his boot, announcing his return. They awoke one by one and stared at him blankly, through bloodshot eyes, unaware that he had ever left the confines of the wagon.

In a tone that would brook no argument he loudly announced, “A bolt of lightning struck the tree at the top of the hill. I went out to look upon it and found this woman lying injured. She speaks the English tongue and is most likely a noble. If we see that she recovers and remains
unharmed
, we will be able to exact a reward for her return to her people. Now, get out. I must make a palette.”

Grumbling, the men each gave Dominic a leering look as they stumbled to their feet and filed out of the wagon.

“Yes, my fine Lord,” Jean-Paul mocked him. “We will make sure she remains unharmed, but what about you? Will you do the same as you bed down next to the fine little piece of baggage? Let us know when ye be finished so we too can lend aid to her recovery!”

“She will need to recover after a night with Nico!” yelled another.

A rumble of bawdy laughter erupted from the lot of them as the last man exited the wagon and they headed out into the darkness to bed down with any of the women in the troupe who might have them for the night. Some drunkenly attempted to pitch a tent, or dropped and slept where they had stood.

He breathed a sigh of relief. They would cause him no trouble this night. They were still slow-witted and half asleep from their drink. But tomorrow would be another matter all together. He was tired and wearily began the task of treating the woman’s injuries so he could get what sleep he might find before the men awoke at dawn.

Although the healing-arts was a craft well left to women, his mother had seen to it that he was well trained in the use of herbs and healing balms. He carefully laid her down, grabbed a nearby blanket and unrolled it, then slid her over so she was lying on it. He placed another rolled blanket beneath her head for support, then walked over to a chest at the far side of the wagon. From it he retrieved a small vial that contained a healing salve that he kept at hand for treating the knife wounds he sometimes incurred while juggling with his weapons. Before returning to her side, he also retrieved a clean shirt and a small bucket of cool, fresh rainwater that was hanging just outside the flap of the wagon’s canopy.

He returned to where she lay and knelt down beside her. He let out a deep sigh as he looked down upon her and confronted the task that lay before him.

“
Better to be done with it,”
he thought. He carefully looped a forefinger into the low-lying neckline of her transparent shift and lifted it to inspect the burn. He whispered a mild oath, realizing that he would need to remove the garment to fully view and treat the wound. Unwilling to risk further injury by moving her again and unable to figure out how the damnable thing was fastened about her, he simply tore it cleanly in half from neck to hem and laid it open on either side of her body.

He could not help allowing his eyes to travel over the length of her, from the mounds of her ample breasts, down past her flat stomach to the rosy petals that lay at the juncture of her thighs, before finally resting upon the burn on her side. It was bad, but she would live to see another day. He quickly tore off a long piece of the shirt he had brought over and used it to clean the wound with the fresh water. Then he applied a thick layer of the healing salve, and tore off another piece of the now ragged shirt hem for a bandage. He felt her forehead and detected no fever there. This was a good sign. He pulled the sides of the torn shift back over her body, covered her with a woolen blanket and placed a cool cloth against her brow.

He leaned back and sighed with relief. He was quite pleased with himself, knowing the woman had no effect on him whatsoever. Then he looked down at the erection that began to strain against his breeches, and knew that was a lie. And to make matters more difficult he knew she needed his warmth.

It was not the dead of winter, but the spring nights were still quite frigid. There could be no fire inside the wagon, and his body’s heat was all there was to warm her with. He removed his shirt and climbed beneath the blanket beside her, pulling another heavier one over them as he lay down. He wanted to wring her beautiful neck right then and there as he looked at her peaceful expression, as he knew full well that
he
himself would have not a moment’s peace as long as she was lying there wrapped in his embrace.
Mon dieu!
She felt good in his arms, though…too damned good. The few precious hours of sleep he had hoped to get before dawn were most certainly lost to him now.

Though there was little left of this night, it was going to be one of the longer ones he had known in all of his twenty-eight winters.