Page 10 of Bewitching the Knight (A Knight’s Tale #2)

I an looked through the iron bars, unlocked the door, and silently opened it. When a crazed witch didn’t rush down the stairs, or otherwise jump out at him, he picked up the platter and tankard from the floor, eased into the gloom, and headed up the tower steps.

Not a witch, he reminded himself. A perfectly ordinary woman. Mayhap.

He’d made her food himself, not trusting anyone at the moment, especially as they all believed him daft for harboring a witch. He didn’t want anyone taking matters into their own hands for the second time this day, now did he?

When he reached the top step, he cautiously glanced around, half-expecting an attack, but the female was nowhere to be seen. He glanced toward the window and chills climbed his back as he considered mayhap she had in truth turned herself into a flying creature and escaped.

No, she was but a woman, made of flesh and bone, the same as the rest of them. He was becoming a woman himself if he thought he could not handle a mere slip of a girl.

The sound of a slight breath sent more chills racing up his spine and he turned a half-circle to study the tower room. The rubbish, stacked higher in some spots than others, was dark with shadow, the broken furniture and other discards seeming ominous and grim. Surely she wasn’t hiding within the cast-offs?

He heard the noise again and looked behind a couple of chairs to find the witch, or rather, the woman, curled in an old tapestry, sound asleep.

He let out his own breath and watched her sleep, her face becoming clearer in the gloom as his eyes adjusted. She truly didna appear as a regular female. Even in the dimness, her hair was a muted red rather than colorless as he’d expect in the shadows. Her face was certainly pretty. Her lashes long and dark against high cheekbones. She was a beauty, to be sure, though he didna like to think of her that way. In his experience, beautiful women were rarely trustworthy. And he’d liked her. Enjoyed her spunk, and certainly how she’d looked at him. Like he was a meal, and she was starving.

Suddenly anxious to speak with her, he poked her foot with the toe of his boot.

She stirred, but didn’t wake.

After he questioned her, ’twould be wise to send her on her way. What with the villagers’ reactions toward her, and the myriad feelings she evoked in him, it seemed a good idea. He nudged her again.

She moaned a bit, and finally woke to stretch and yawn, and he even found those movements enticing. What was wrong with him? He looked away, focusing on the rubbish beyond.

She opened her eyes, saw him, and sat up quickly. “Oh. Hi.”

He nodded once. “Good eve. I’ve brought supper.” He lifted the plate and tankard slightly.

“Thank you.” She swung her knees around and reached for the plate. After she situated it on her legs, he gave her the ale and she set it on the floor. She took a bite of bread, and he realized he stared, fascinated by her every movement. He glanced over at the slight light coming from the windows, up to the arrow slits, around the piled rubbish. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have questions.”

“I expect you do.”

And blast it, he couldn’t seem to think of a single one. He blurted out, “You know, lass, if you dress like a witch, and curse people like one, ye'll be burned as one.”

“So I gathered,” she said, her mouth full.

That made him smile. The girl was a glutton, who, from the looks of things, hadn’t eaten in a long while. He crossed his arms, glad he’d thought to bring food, feeling curiously gratified he’d been the one to feed her. “Where d’ye hail from? How came ye to be here?”

She lifted the tankard, sipped, shrugged.

His eyes narrowed. Until she answered to his satisfaction, she’d remain locked within. He tried a different approach. “Can I escort you somewhere? Make sure you arrive unaccosted and safe?”

“I bet you could.” She stared up at him, and again, he heard admiration in her tone, and even in the dim light could see it in her gaze. It was headier than any seduction she could have staged, and he cursed himself for his weakness. Apparently he needed to find himself a wife if scant praise from a prisoner could affect him thusly.

“I’m curious about some of the foretelling you spoke of earlier. It sounds as though you know our king?”

Her gaze dropped to her meal and she quickly stuffed a morsel of venison into her mouth, a stalling tactic he’d used himself on occasion. When she finally swallowed, she shrugged. “No. No, I don’t. I know a lot about him, but I’ve never met him personally. They were going to kill me. I was just spouting nonsense.”

“But what you said about the king laying claim to the Western Isles. He does talk of that. Incessantly. He means to finish his father’s work. And you mentioned his death and that of his children. And war with England. How could you know of such?”

“I was just trying to capture their interest.” Intelligence shone bright in her eyes.

He should let it drop, but it bothered him. “It sounded as if ye knew. I ken the truth when I hear it. You spoke of queens killing queens. Of famine.”

“Natural disasters occur all the time. As do political ones.”

This was so close to his earlier thoughts, he wondered that he even bothered questioning the woman. He hesitated, then finally sighed. What was he to do? Press her until she admitted she’d scryed the future? Then what? Burn her as a witch? Even if she turned out to be one, he didn’t have the stomach for the deed. If he desired that result, he could set the girl loose and her hair alone would have her dead inside a week. He turned away, not liking that thought either.

He scraped a chair across the wood floor, checked its sturdiness, and sat. “Tell me what you do here. How did you dig up the crown without disturbing the earth?”

She glanced up sharply at that, thought for a moment, then finally said, “I didn’t.”

“Ye did.”

“How about I ask you a question. What would happen to The Crown of Scotland if you never told a soul where you’d buried it, and then you died?”

Chills broke out on Ian’s arm, and his muscles tensed in aggression, but he forced himself to remain still. “Are ye threatenin’ me?”

“No, I’d never hurt you. Not in a million years.”

That gave him pause. He didn’t know exactly what she meant, but could hear the sincerity in her voice. Like she was speaking truth, or making a vow. “What of the man you brought wi’ you?”

“Jerry is no threat to you.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Gone. I need to find him, and I’m going to need that crown back.”

She was a demanding wee thing. And curse him, but he liked her for it. It made a nice change from the cowering females in his keep. “The crown is my responsibility.”

“Not this one, apparently.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“You never answered my question. What happens if you die and you haven’t told anyone about the crown? Maybe someone, years in the future, will figure you out. Would study all the places you like to hide things—in the solar, the space under your window, the hollowed out beam of your bedroom ceiling—”

The hair rose on his arms, and he stood. “Enough. That is enough.” He started to back away.

“Wait.” She rose, and her dress fell into straight lines, and his eyes were drawn to her narrow waist flaring to shapely hips. His gaze darted to her cleavage, her face. A breath escaped him. Even in shadow she was bloody beautiful, bewitching him effortlessly.

“Are you going to let me go? Please, help me find Jerry, and we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Nay.” He kept his eyes on her as he backed toward the stairs, then he turned and hurried down. “I’ll not do any of that.”

“Wait a minute, where are you going?”

“Stay where you are. Doona follow me.”

“But—”

“Stay.”

“Wait. Don’t leave me. There’s a mouse in here!”

“You doona say?” He reached the bottom, shut the door, and locked it. He hurried down the stairs so she wouldn’t be able to see him if she crept down and peered through the bars.

He finally stopped, leaned against the wall, his heart pounding like a drum.

She’d known of his best hiding spots. Even the one he was still crafting. He’d never, since the time he’d been a boy, believed in witches, but now he was questioning that fact. Could she be a seer? Just because he’d not met one before, didn’t mean they didn’t exist. There was no other way he could think that the girl could have known his business.

And he still didn’t know how she’d removed the crown without disturbing the dirt.

He pushed away from the wall. He had no intention of going back up there this night. But one matter was certain. She’d remain his guest until she could answer all his questions to his satisfaction.

But next time he’d question her in daylight.

After a sleepless night during which she’d failed to pick the lock and then had to make use of the garderobe—nothing quite like hovering her derriere over a medieval toilet in the dark—Samantha woke when she heard the key turning in the lock. She figured she knew who it was. Mr. Smoking Hot, Himself. After deserting her and leaving her in the dark, with a mouse, all night long, he’d decided to show his face again.

Regardless of the irritation, her heart leapt. She sat up on the straw-filled pallet and waited, not wanting to scare the guy off again. Meeting him was probably akin to unexpectedly meeting a favorite movie star. She smiled and admitted it. She was star struck. As there wasn’t a chance a relationship could ever happen between them, why not fantasize, right? It wasn’t everyone who got to meet their obsession.

The pulse in her throat fluttered as she heard whispers at the bottom of the stairs. She was enjoying the feeling of anticipation. She was pretty sure she’d never felt quite this way before. The thrumming, energy, the building excitement. In fact, she knew dang well she hadn’t. Did they just make men differently back in the day? She certainly hadn’t had this reaction to any of the guys in the village. But then, the whole burn-the-witch-at-the-stake thing had been going on. But still, she thought maybe it was just him. She chuckled at herself. Okay, calm down, girl. Calm down.

When he didn’t appear, and the whispering continued, she finally called out, “Hello?” She started to stand, heard a pause, then more whispering, and settled back to wait. It wasn’t long before a cloth-covered head peeked up over the stairs, and startled blue eyes met her own. Definitely not The MacGregor. Darn it.

The young lady ducked down again and Samantha was left wondering what to do. Get up and greet the whisperers? Or stay put so she didn’t startle anyone? Run down the stairs, scream like a banshee, and push her way past them and scramble toward freedom?

She grinned and decided the most circumspect thing to do was sit and wait.

It paid off. Two heads appeared together this time, and wide-eyed pretty teen girls slowly climbed the stairs, one balancing a bowl of water that sloshed as she walked, the other carrying cloths and shooting Samantha wary glances. Two more followed. They retreated as far from her as possible, then turned as a lady who looked to be in her mid-thirties or so huffed into view.

“Hello.” Samantha addressed the woman.

“A good day to ye.” She stood at the top and caught her breath, a hand pressed to one side. A plump woman, her brown hair was pulled up in a bun on top of her head, and a few wrinkles marked the skin at her eyes.

“Quite the climb.” Samantha commented.

The woman studied her openly in return. “It is, indeed. I am Beth. The master sent us to make the place a bit more hospitable for ye. We’ve brought you soap, wash water, and a chewing stick to clean your teeth. I’ve a spare comb about somewhere, and we’ll have some food brought up later.”

“Thank you. I’ll be glad to freshen up.” Considering the fact that she’d been lolling around in dirt and woodpiles, she was genuinely grateful.

The woman nodded. “We’re to clean. I’ve enlisted some boys to move some of this,” she waved a hand to indicate the pile of junk, “to another room so ye might be a tad more comfortable.”

“Okay. But before you start, I think you should know there’s a mouse in here.”

Beth looked at her for a moment, then a smile, wide and genuine, preceded a chuckle. “Probably more than one, as there are in most rooms of the castle, I’m sure.”

Samantha groaned. “You just had to say that, didn’t you?” She finally deemed it a good idea to stand. She held out a hand. “I’m Samantha.”

Beth took her hand in a rough one and squeezed. “Pleased to meet ye.”

“And you. What can I do to help?”

After an appraising look, Beth pointed toward the broom on the floor. “I’ll let you sweep and ye can throw the dust out the window while the girls start to remove some of the lighter rubbish.” She clapped her hands. “Enough standing about, lassies. Get to it.”

The girls started to haul stuff down the stairs, and Beth called one of them over. “This is my daughter, Victoria. We call her Tori.”

The young girl blushed and looked down. Blonde beneath her headscarf, beautiful, with high cheekbones, and a tiny waist, she was neat as a pin in her dress and apron. She dipped a slight curtsey. “Mum.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Tori.” She glanced at Beth again. “She’s a beauty, like her mother.”

“She’s a hard worker.” Beth said sternly, but wasn’t quite able to hide a pleased expression as she shooed the girl back to work.

“Does the sudden cleanup mean I’m going to be here for a while?”

Beth shrugged. “I’ve no idea. We just do as we’re told.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Samantha muttered, earning another short smile from Beth.

As the girls hauled stuff out, Samantha swept dust and dirt. They shied away from her at first, but after a while the girls seemed to lose their fear as they went about their business.

Two teen boys appeared, stared at Samantha curiously, and caused some giggling among the girls. They were quickly instructed to haul some of the heavier pieces of furniture away, but to leave the largest chest for Samantha’s use. When they hauled the chest against one wall, Samantha inspected the interior. She pulled out a piece of metal and lifted it for inspection. “Oh, wow. Check this out. It’s a bodkin. I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never actually seen one.”

Her excitement made the kids smile.

“It’s a nasty little stabbing weapon that knights kept on their person for up close and personal fighting. They could grab it off their belt and stab the enemy, usually in the eyes or throat.” Realizing that this particular piece might have done exactly that—and fairly recently by her standards—she made a noise of disgust and dropped it back in the chest—to the tune of more teen laughter.

She pushed some folded material aside and snagged something from one corner. “And look at this.” She pulled out a bronze clothing buckle, in better shape than any she’d seen before, with floral designs etched into it. The middle pin was only slightly bent. She held it up for everyone to see.

“Aye,” one of the boys commented. “An old buckle. How very useful.”

“Don’t think I don’t hear the sarcasm, chum.”

They laughed again, but she didn’t care. Maybe the pin could be used to pick the lock? This place was a potential treasure trove. She opened a box and found some keys on an iron ring. She looked around, but no one was paying her any attention, so she shoved the box under the material. The keys might work out even better than the buckle.

She bent over the chest again, and her body weight shifted it slightly and she disturbed a nearby mouse. The rodent scrambled, catching her attention and she lifted her head in time to see it run toward her dress, felt it scramble over the back of her exposed calf, and she shrieked, long and loud, springing to her feet shaking out her skirt. “Hantavirus! Plague! Run!” She looked wildly around to see where the critter had gone, slammed the lid of the chest, and scrambled on top of it.

The kids were laughing out loud now. Even Beth cracked a smile.

Samantha, hand to her heart, scowled at the lot of them. “Very funny. I’m brutally attacked and almost die, and you guys stand around laughing at me. Nice.”

Her heart soon resumed its normal pace, but she decided to stay put for a while. Watching them all working so industriously made her curious. “Have you lived here all your lives?”

They looked around at each other and one of the boys finally answered. “Aye.”

“Do you make your own clothes?”

“Aye,” responded one girl.

“How do you make them? What I mean is, what kind of material do you use? Where do you get it from? Who does the sewing?”

Beth shot her a look of surprise. “Wool, my lady. From the sheep.”

“Produced locally?”

“Of course.”

“Huh. I’d like to see that. How old were you girls when you started working as maids?”

Tori answered this time. “Ten and two, my lady.”

“So young?”

“Before that, I helped in the kitchens.”

“And I in the fields,” said another girl.

“Wow. You kids are really are hard workers.”

They looked pleased and the classes her boss made her take popped into her mind. Huh. Show a genuine interest in people, and they actually did respond well.

“What of you?” Beth asked.

Samantha shrugged, considered what she could and couldn’t say, then decided the roundabout truth worked just fine. “I work for a university, love old things, travel the world.”

They looked visibly impressed. “Where have you been?” Tori asked.

“Besides Europe?” She considered how small the world was during the 13 th century and tried to keep her answers to the known. “China, India, Arabia.”

They all looked astounded.

“Where in China?” Beth asked.

“Banpo. Gallery Road. Yinxu.” She answered truthfully.

“Does your family worry for you, traveling about like that?” one of the girls asked.

Samantha blew out a breath. “It’s just me and my grandfather now.” She looked down. “He’s dying, and I need to get out of here and back to him as soon as I can.”

Beth tsked. “No doubt he’s worried.”

“I’m sure he is. Did any of you happen to see the crown I brought in with me?”

Beth shook her head. “We heard of it, but didn’t get to see it. It belongs to you?”

If they thought it was hers, she was good with that. “Yes, it’s mine.”

“I truly like your hair,” said the young redhead, speaking for the first time. The other three girls quickly agreed.

“How could we make our hair that color?” Tori asked.

Beth hushed them. “I dinna believe the mistress here to be a witch, but you girls still shouldn’t wish to be like her.”

“We don’t think she’s a witch, either.”

“Thank you,” Samantha said. “I’m not.” She straightened and jumped off the trunk, considering how to turn the conversation back to the crown. She had no doubt MacGregor had secreted it away somewhere. This group of ladies probably cleaned his room and could give her more information, both about the crown, and the man. “So, I was wondering, does anyone know if Ian, I mean Laird MacGregor, has a girlfriend?” Samantha cringed the moment the words were out. She was supposed to be finding the crown.

“A what?” Beth asked.

“A lady?”

Beth smiled and the girls did, as well. “Nae, he doesna.”

Samantha ignored their amused faces, pleased to have an answer to a question history had failed to record. “What do you know about him?”

“His mother was burned at the stake,” Tori said. “His father was the former laird. His father’s wife was so horrible to him that his da finally sent him to his English relatives, no doubt fearing his son would be killed.”

“Tori.” Beth snapped. “Get back to work and stop your gossiping.”

“Sorry, mum.”

Samantha hadn’t known about the stepmom. She wondered if the lady was the ultimate cause of his demise. “Is she still about? The stepmother?”

Beth looked like she wouldn’t answer for a moment, but finally shook her head. “Nay. She died of fever this past year, along with her husband and two sons.”

“Oh. That’s sad.” And the reminder that Ian also died young was totally depressing. It was a hard time to live in. She exhaled a breath. “Can you tell me about the layout of the castle?”

Beth’s chest puffed out. “The place was once built of timber and had wooden palisades, but now most of it is fashioned of stone. We have a hall to hold three score, and a large kitchen with two fireplaces, as well as a well-stocked larder and pantry. There are the two bedchambers, and the solar. Then there are the stables.” Her lips pursed for a moment. “We do have a chapel, and there’s a church in the village, but both are boarded up at the moment.”

“Why?” In this time period, church was the center of clan life.

Beth shrugged. “We follow the laird’s wishes.”

“Huh.” A question for another day. “Where does the laird sleep?”

“In the great chamber, of course. At the bottom of the stairs, turn to your right.”

This set the girls giggling. “Are you wishing to be the laird’s mistress, then?”

“Tori, hush.”

“But mum, you know Brecken is pressuring me to become such.”

Beth looked upset.

Tori glanced at Samantha. “I’ve considered handfasting.”

“’Tisn’t a true marriage and you know it,” Beth said. “Contracts can be broken.”

“Brecken MacGregor? And you’re Victoria?” Samantha recognized the names of the Laird and Lady who came into power after Ian was killed. She considered the time and place and offered the advice. “Being a mistress doesn’t afford much influence nor protection. You should hold out for marriage.”

Someone stomped and wheezed up the stairs. A fat, red-faced woman appeared, holding a covered tray, two young girls in her wake. “Breakfast.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Samantha said.

The woman tore the cloth off the food, and oh, dear, it did not look appetizing. Blobs of…of…green, purplish, and brown stuff, placed on a large platter, none of it touching.

“Oh.” Samantha looked around at the others. “The thing is, a piece of bread, with maybe some butter on it would probably do me.”

“It’s not supposed to be appetizing,” the woman said. “It’s supposed to show if you be a witch.”

Samantha sighed. “I’m not a witch.”

The woman lifted the tray. “Prove it.”

“It looks poisonous.”

“’Tis not.”

Samantha looked around at the expectant faces and realized that if she didn’t eat it, they’d believe what they wanted and probably spread rumors to that effect. Queasy, she looked at the food again. “So what you’re saying is, that if I eat this, it will prove once and for all I’m not a witch?”

“Aye.” Tori smiled encouragingly.

Samantha hesitated. She wanted them to trust her, but to eat that—Ugh. Green and goopy, purple and brown, it looked like what would be served on Medieval Fear Factor. “Is it cooked?”

“O’ course.”

“There aren’t any bugs or anything vile in it, right?”

The cook puffed out her chest. “O’ course not.”

“If I eat it, can I have something tasty to eat after?”

The woman glanced away. “Aye.”

“Why did you look away?” Samantha asked accusingly. “It’s poisoned, isn’t it?”

Cook’s eyes flashed back. “Only if you be a witch!” Her eyes narrowed in on Samantha’s hair and she nodded once.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll eat it if you will.”

“I’m not a witch,” Cook puffed in indignation.

“Then it shouldn’t hurt you.”

Cook hesitated, then glanced around at the expectant faces, and her chin jutted out. “Fine.” She balanced the tray with one hand, then plucked a slimy looking piece of something off the dish, popped it in her mouth, chewed without so much as a grimace, then swallowed. “Now you.”

Since she could see no way out of it, Samantha lifted another of the same piece of goo as Cook had, pinched it between finger and thumb, smelled it, then slowly placed it in her mouth.

After a moment Beth said, “You must chew.”

Samantha chewed. Cold, slimy, and chewy, tasting slightly of grass, she gagged once, but finally managed to swallow. She gagged again, but kept it down. “Proof enough?”

“Nay.” Cook scooped up another piece, this time from the purplish pile, and crunched her way through it.

Crunchy was better, surely? Samantha reached forward and this time didn’t hesitate, but popped a piece into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Mm. That one tasted like a cookie.”

Cook watched her suspiciously, probably waiting for her to keel over, and Samantha refrained from grabbing her own throat and making gurgling noises, but just barely.

Next Cook picked up a brown gelatin looking something and ate it.

Samantha did the same, but couldn’t help screwing up her face at the bitter taste. “Ugh. What’s in that?”

Cook laughed out loud. “Witch’s bile. And, I have to say, nastier than I remember.”

“Ugh. Can’t I have something tasty now? Something to drink?” A toothbrush? Mouthwash?

Cook brought a piece of bread out of her apron, split it in half, and shared it.

Samantha gladly chewed, hoping to eradicate the taste. “Mm. This is good.”

Cook’s expression finally softened. “Perhaps I’ll send some up wi’ jam.”

When Samantha looked toward the platter, Cook laughed. “Berry jam.”

Samantha smiled. “That sounds great.”

Cook laughed again.

“Then she’s not a witch?” asked the redheaded girl.

Cook lifted a shoulder and, balancing a platter in one hand, headed for the stairs. “Nae more than me, it seems.”

Tori was grinning. “I ne’er believed her such.”

“Me either,” said another girl.

“Nor me,” said the redhead.

“There’s no such things, you know.” Samantha mentally listed the pros and cons of telling the girls about the number of people put to death in Europe, or the Salem witch trials, but decided against it, simply saying, “A lot of good people have died over the years, both men and women, who’ve been falsely accused. Often their accusers stood to gain from their deaths. I know of one such case where a lot of really good people died for no reason, and the accusers later admitted that they’d lied.”

When the three girls started to cry, Samantha wished she hadn’t said anything. Especially when she saw Ian MacGregor standing at the top of the stairs.

“What is going on here?”

Wow. The man just seemed to get better looking every time she saw him. Samantha shrugged. “They were testing me to see if I was a witch. I passed with flying colors.”

He made an impatient noise. “Everyone out.”

Beth shooed them all, and they scrambled, picking up cleaning supplies, before heading down the stairs. A couple of the girls shot looks between the two of them and giggled before hurrying down.

“Don’t tell me. They made you eat wormwood?”

She made a face. “Please tell me it wasn’t made of worms.”

“It tastes like grass.”

She shuddered. “Yes. I ate it.”

“Did they put herbs in your bed?”

Samantha looked over to where the girls had made her up a bed on the pallet. She crossed to it and pulled back the blanket to see herbs dotting the sheet.

He followed. “Och, aye. If you’re a witch, ye’ll be dead by morning. They played the same trick on me when I arrived. It won’t hurt you, but it’ll itch like the devil it you don’t shake it out.”

Her mouth curved and she dropped the blanket. “Thanks for the tip.”

After looking at her mouth, he turned without another word and headed for the stairs.

“Wait. Do I get to go, too?”

“You’re to stay here.”

“For how long?

“Until I let you go.”

Maybe she needed to tell him the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He looked like a reasonable man, and if it would get he out of the tower...she’d have to think about it.

He looked at her, apparently waiting for a reaction, but all she could muster was a slight shrug.

“Nae complaints?”

She shook her head and held in a smile. It was easy to be nice about being locked in when you had a box of keys. She had no doubt one of them would fit in the lock. Medieval key making wasn’t that advanced and besides, the ones she’d found looked like a spare set, something the chatelaine of a castle would wear. She was pretty sure she could make one work.

Tonight she was going to find that crown and get out of there. And now, thanks to the girls, she knew just where to look.

* * *

Ian eyed the girl. She was as attractive in daylight as she’d been in shadow, and incredibly appealing to him. He’d been trying to stay away all morning, trying to keep busy both indoors and out, but it was as if she drew him here without effort, and he’d finally given in, convinced that if he could see her he’d realize she was but a woman and the sway she held over his thoughts would fade quickly away.

But blast it, he could see it wasna to be. She watched him with long-lashed brown eyes, so beautiful a man could drown in them, her expression lit as if happy to gaze upon him again, her pretty face surrounded by that untamed, vibrant hair. He wrenched his gaze away and turned to follow the others down the stairs.

“Wait,” she cried out. “At least let me out of the tower for the day. I could stay right by your side.”

He stopped, glad for the excuse to stay, and considered keeping her with him. He faced her again, and her pull grew ever stronger, more enticing, and he shook his head. He’d get nothing done if she was beside him the whole day through. “Nay, ye’ll stay here.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve this. How is this fair?”

The pique on her face had him suppressing a smile. “Life rarely is fair. Anyway, ’tis to keep you safe ’til I decide what to do wi’ you. As it is, my clan wants ye dead, as they fear you.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, that makes us even, because I’m terrified of them.”

Still reluctant to leave, he glanced around. “It looks as if they made a good start of the clean-up. ’Twas time to burn some of the rubble, anyway.”

Samantha’s mouth dropped. “No! You have some amazing finds. Incomparable 13 th century relics that could be restored. Oh…wait a minute…I mean, uh, useful things.

Surprised at her vehemence, his brows rose. “Ah. A thrifty lass, are ye? Weel, that’s not a bad thing.”

They stared at each other and he wondered if his expression was as…keen as her own, suspected it was, and grew uncomfortable until he shifted on his feet.

“How did you get so big?” she finally asked, her hands waving to indicate his arms and chest, her tone admiring.

He felt his neck heat as he lifted a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “My mother’s brothers are tall and big like me.” He started to walk backward, began to form an excuse to take his leave. “Weel, now, I’ll just—”

“Wait.” She closed the distance between them. “Have there been attempts on your life yet?”

He stopped, his brows lowering in disbelief. “What know you of that?”

“Nothing really, I’ve just heard rumors. But I do know that if you die while I’m in here, that there will be no one to protect me and I’ll be burned at the stake before you can say Bob’s Your Uncle. Or left to starve in this tower.”

“Then perhaps you’d do well to remember that.”

“What are you implying? I’d never try to kill you. Never.”

He studied her fierce, passionate face. “Ye seem to mean that.”

“I do.” She stepped in front of him, blocking his way to the stairs. “Have you thought about giving me the crown?”

“Nay. ’Tis hidden, and it’ll do ye no good to look for it.”

Her eyes darted as she considered. “Along with valuables won from tournaments?”

His brows slammed together. “What know you of that?”

She grinned. “Just that you like to hide treasure for a rainy day.”

“Rainy day? You’re an odd lass. Are you truly a thief then?” He stepped to the side, intent on getting away now.

“No.” She moved again to block his path again.

It would be a simple matter to set her aside, but he did not make the attempt. Apparently he wasn’t quite ready to go.

She looked calculating. “Come on, Ian.” She shifted closer. “If you could just see your way to letting me out, I’d appreciate it so much. Can’t you just do me this one tiny favor?” She smiled, obviously trying to soften him, but being so blatant, so obvious, that his lips curled the smallest bit. If she was a spy, she wouldn’t make a very good one.

“Nay. Ye’ll stay here.”

“Pretty, pretty please.”

Ian bit the inside of his lower lip in an attempt to hold a grin. He had to admit, blatant or not, she was appealing and he was tempted to grant her wish…her every wish. Of course, that was the trick of it, wasn’t it? Lure him in with charm, then steal his valuables and disappear. Perhaps she wasn’t so bad at this after all. “Nay.”

She dropped the sweet expression. “Why not? It’s a perfectly reasonable request. I’ll stay with you where I’m safe.”

Her trust in him did funny things to his insides. “No.”

She looked down the stairs, then back at him. “I could probably beat you to the bottom, shut the door, and lock you in.”

He laughed, pulled a key from his shirt pocket, and dangled it in front of her. “Without a key?”

She didn’t bother to hide her irritation.

He grinned, enjoying her transparent reactions. “You are most amusing.”

“How ‘bout we make a bargain?” Her eyes flickered briefly to his lips. “You give me the crown, and I’ll give you a kiss.”

That caught his attention, and said much about her attraction as he was incredibly tempted. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Tell me how you knew I had the crown and I’ll consider it.”

She took a deep breath. “The crown disappeared from court at about the same time you did. The memorial to your mother has birds carved into it. And, at the base, lion’s claws, which everyone knows is the king’s emblem.”

Which he’d meant to resemble birds so as fool a casual observer—but that the king or an emissary would recognize did he come searching for the crown. This business with the poison made him a cautious man.

Still, how could she have known any of this? One look at the memorial and she’d figured it out? Figured him out? Apparently he wasn’t as wily as he’d believed. She was beautiful, passionate, and driving him mad. He circled her, striding for the stairs, needing to get away, needing to think.

She grabbed his arm, her cool touch like a heated brand. “Take me with you. You can keep an eye on me. I won’t try to elude you or disobey.”

He was tempted. She interested him and made him laugh. She seemed to admire him, as well. Her wide-eyed appeals, the attempt to manipulate him to do her bidding was at odds with her transparency. Seemingly, intelligence and innocence made for a heady combination where he was concerned. And he still couldn’t get her bravery from yesterday out of his head.

“You never answered. Have there been attempts on your life?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You give yourself away without meaning to. How could you know that unless you are the assassin or working wi’ one?”

“I’m not an assassin. I just know everything ever written about you, okay?” She threw up a hand, an impatient gesture, then without warning rushed toward the stairs.

He caught her, gripped her wrist and twirled her around to face him, so close their bodies were a hair’s-breadth apart. “Written about me? I hardly think monks are wasting time scribbling about my feats or that others would take the time to read such.”

“You’d be surprised.” She struggled.

“Where do you think to go, lass?”

She inhaled. “I can’t be caged like a bird,” she said, her attention locked on his mouth. “I must be free.” She softened, relaxed.

His stomach clenched like a fist, hard to his gut, and his gaze dipped to her lips. His hands clenched on her wrist and he swallowed, fought not to pull her flush against him.

“I never really thanked you properly. For saving my life, I mean.” Her voice was breathy, almost a whisper. Had she inched closer?

There was that expression again, the yearning, the admiration. She would drive him to madness. Everyone feared him, but she looked at him, well, the way a woman looks at a man she wishes for her own. The sensation was heady, and he shook his head to break her spell.

It didn’t work.

His gaze dropped to her plump lips once more, and he couldn’t help but wonder how far she’d take this trick. If he leaned down to claim her offered kiss, she’d no doubt lose the expression of wonder and esteem. He was tempted to try. It would be a test. Just to prove her false.

He bent his head, leaned closer, saw her startled expression before she smiled and tilted her face to his. She must’ve pushed up on her toes, for she drew near of her own accord, her free hand landing on his chest, hot, like a brand.

He stopped, sucked in air, his mouth hovering over hers, the air between them seeming to heat.

What was he doing?

She was, no doubt, using her wiles and enchantments upon him—whether a witch or woman, it mattered not. All the same, moving away from her, watching her eyes fill with disappointment, was one of the most difficult things he’d done in his life. He released her and a sharp breath left his lips as he backed to the stairs.

She swallowed. “Are you going to let me out?”

“Nay.” Turning he hastened down the steps. “Ye’ll stay here ’til I can take you away from this place. For your own safety.” And my own piece of mind.

“You know,” she yelled after him. “You have a lot of nerve accusing me of being a witch when you’re the one casting spells around here.”

Truly? She thought him a caster of spells? She sounded so disgruntled—about missing out on his kiss?—he couldn’t help it. He laughed in unabashed wonder, even as he locked her in and hurried away.