Page 7 of Bewitching the Knight (A Knight’s Tale #2)

I an’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.

He descended the ladder once more, slid it under his bed, hid the dull blade, then scooped up slivers of wood and dust and tossed it all out the window. He kicked at the leftover dust until it dispersed, then remembered to brush out his thick hair with his fingers, else the shavings would show against the dark.

He grimaced as his stomach rumbled. He truly did need sustenance. The apples he picked directly from the trees weren’t enough to fill him, and the thought of eating another made him sick to his stomach. And surly, blast it. He’d be naught but skin and bones at this rate. He had to catch the murderer before he did the villain a favor and collapsed from starvation.

When he walked into the hall a few minutes later, the servants scrambled away. Ian’s lips pressed together and he could feel his face tighten. What did they think he’d do? Murder them all?

“Ian.”

He turned to Janetta, Brecken’s mother, seated at the long table on the dais, smiling at him. She lifted a hand in greeting. “Good-day to you.”

“Good-day, Aunt.”

His father’s sister beckoned him closer. As he was late to the noonday meal, most were already done and gone, which suited him fine. Any man who looked at him overlong while he ate tended to become suspect.

Dugald sat alone at one end of the table eating a late meal, and, as always, avoiding eye contact as he wolfed his food.

“I’m starved.” Ian announced as he made his way across the room.

Janetta’s smile brightened and she set down the embroidery she worked on and stood. “O’ course you are. I’ll be right back, my dear.”

Ian seated himself and watched as the servants went about their chores, avoiding his gaze, while they managed their tasks as far from him as possible. He grimaced. He was pleasant to them for the most part. Even when the unknown villain or villains had tried to strike him down, he hadn’t blamed any of them, so their cowering was irritating.

He turned to look at the needlepoint Janetta had set on the table. The face of a young girl was all he could make out, but he felt a flicker of warmth for the feminine, graceful pastime. He hoped Janetta planned to hang it on the wall when finished.

He glanced about the sterile room. Frankly, he’d appreciate anything that would brighten this gloomy old place. Granted, he’d torn down many of the tapestries his father’s wife had ordered fashioned and burned them when he’d arrived, so he’d none but himself to blame for the lack of decor, or the chill that was sure to seep in come winter.

Still, he wouldn’t undo it if he could. Destroying that woman’s life’s work in a single afternoon had proved highly satisfactory, with the added benefit of erasing the scenes that bore witness to the many humiliations of his childhood.

He drummed his fingers against the tabletop. He could order more tapestries. And mayhap it was time for him to marry. A few wall hangings and a wee bit of chatter and laughter in the place wouldn’t come amiss. Finding a girl who’d have him, now that was a problem in itself, though, wasn’t it? His lips curled. Perhaps he should petition the king. The young whelp owed him, but Ian doubted the king’s choice of bride and his own would match. Better he should marry a girl from his own or a neighboring clan. But finding one who didn’t cross herself against him or scurry off did he look overlong in her direction might prove difficult.

Janetta returned ten minutes later, bringing out his meal herself. The generous portions of venison, fish, onions, and cabbage all smelled and looked delicious. She fussed around him as she set the steaming plate down, a spoon to one side, and beckoned a serving wench forward with ale.

She waited for him to take a bite.

He hesitated.

“I assure you, I stood over Cook myself and watched her prepare yer food.”

Her earnestness amused him, her natural warmth and friendliness again reminding him of his mother. If not for his aunt, life would be much less pleasant. He wondered if Brecken knew how lucky he was. Mayhap her interest and concern toward Ian was yet another reason for Brecken to be jealous. Ian shrugged. “Who knows where the food was before you arrived to watch the preparation.”

He picked up a piece of venison, then fish, and threw it to a waiting dog.

Janetta tsked her disapproval as she sat. “Ian, truly, ’tis a waste. I told you, I carefully watched Cook, myself.”

He threw the dog some cabbage and onion. “Sorry, Aunt. Old habits die hard.”

She huffed out a breath.

“Doona take offense. I’ve no doubt you’ve protected me. But the ingredients, themselves, could be tainted. Anyhow, I doubt I’ll ever be able to let off wi’ precautions ’til I catch the culprit. I’ve no intention of dying to please a sneaky, sniveling, backstabbing coward.”

She lifted a shoulder, her expression troubled. “It just seems a displeasing way to live.”

“Mayhap, but at least I’ll live.”

The little brown dog thumped his tail, his eyes adoring, a white paw lifting to beg for more. Ian was glad the dog didn’t die. He liked the mutt. And what was more, it actually seemed to like him in return.

Janetta resumed her seat and picked up her needle. “You’re too used to the king’s court.”

Ian met Dugald’s ironic gaze as the man cleaned under his fingernails with his blade on the far side of the table. He was well aware Dugald thought this place more of a viper’s nest than even the king’s court. “If I wasn’t, I dare say I’d be dead already.”

Her brows drew together. “Perhaps when the last dog died, the food was simply spoiled?”

Ian wanted to laugh. She clearly did not wish to think unkindly of another. “Spoiled food doesna act so quickly. I appreciate that one as tender of heart as you could not understand the dark intents of others, but believe me, I’ve seen enough of the world that I no longer doubt the lengths some will go to in order to achieve their own ends.”

She still looked distressed. Perhaps he shouldn’t put so much effort into disillusioning her. He liked her as she was. Sweet, loving, and untainted by the schemes of others.

He waited a few moments more, then, when the dog didn’t die, he finally took a bite of beef and cabbage. He barely kept himself from moaning aloud as the flavors melded against his tongue. So much better than the apples.

She watched him, a pleased expression on her face, while he chewed and swallowed. “There, then. That’s better.” She took up her tapestry and needle. “How are you doing this day? Is there aught I can help wi’?”

He sincerely doubted she wished to count stores, chop wood, or train men, though she might enjoy helping him with his latest hiding place as she alone seemed to appreciate the hard-won gold he’d brought with him. “Thank you for your kind offer, but ye’ve your own work to occupy you, and grateful I am for your skill at running the castle.”

Her gaze dropped, and she looked pleased.

Besides, he didn’t wish her involved in his main task of working out who the possible assassin could be. Especially as her own son still topped the list. If not Brecken, it could be anyone, could it not? And perhaps for reasons he was unable to fathom. For all he knew, it might be the lot of them, every man, woman, and child in the castle or the village beyond.

She lowered the tapestry again. “You’re scowling. Is the food not to your liking?”

“It’s good.” He took another bite. He might even think to suspect Janetta, if the idea weren’t so ludicrous. She was Brecken’s mother, after all. Ian’s father’s sister. But she was the only one he did trust to keep him alive. When he’d arrived so unexpectedly by the king’s command, she’d admitted her son wasn’t ready for such responsibility as Laird, and that Ian could teach him much. He’d seen the relief in her eyes.

“Weel, keep eating. When you’re finished, I’ll bring more.” Janetta plied her needle through linen. “You’re decreasing to skin and bones.”

He pulled his plate forward and took another spoonful when the front door was thrown wide and a young boy came running into the hall.

“There’s a witch in the village! And they’re to burn her in the square. Hurry, or ye’ll miss it entirely.” The boy, having delivered his message, scurried back out.

Every eye in the hall turned toward Ian as he stood so fast his chair overturned and crashed to the floor. He grabbed an ax off the wall and ran out the door—heat, anger, and violence surging inside him until he saw red. He tore down the road, a well-armed Dugald at his heels.

They thought to burn a woman in his village? On his watch? Right beneath his very nose? Not while he yet lived and breathed. He was sick of the superstitious lot of them, and now they’d gone too far. Burn a woman in the very location of his own mother’s murder? After he’d recently erected a monument to honor her? While his people, who should and did know better, looked on? Had another priest sneaked into the village without his knowledge?

He should send the craven lot of them straight to Satan’s dark realms. If so much as the hem of the woman’s skirt was scorched, someone would die this night, and ’twould not be the female.

* * *

Samantha tried to appear calm, confident, and brave; the kind of girl sent as emissary to a king. She attempted to keep the tears at bay, and tried not to stare at the guy holding the torch.

She was too young to die. And she’d never be old enough to be burned to death as a bunch of strangers watched her skin char and melt from her body.

What was wrong with these people?

She gulped a few times, trying to still the panic, instinctively knowing that any sort of hysteria would be like fuel on the fire. Ugh . Bad analogy. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them. “Look, guys, you need to understand that I’m a very nice person. I’m trustworthy and hardworking. I know my hair looks terrible, but this color is all the rage in…in London right now. I was assured that this unfortunate shade would fade quickly. I hope that’s true, because I actually like my own hair color much better.”

She looked down. “And this dress is horrible, I know it. But I’m planning to give it to charity the moment I can. I’m kind that way, and I don’t like to waste good material.”

She noticed a large man running down the dirt road leading to the castle, others trailing behind him. Was rescue at hand? Or was this an afternoon’s entertainment that no one wanted to miss?

Clearing her throat, she swallowed against the tightness. “I’m sure you’re all wondering where I came from and what my purpose is in being here. Well, the truth is, I’m actually working for King Alexander III.” She tried to make eye contact with the men and women in the crowd, one at a time. She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “I’m on a secret mission for him, and if I end up getting killed, he’s not going to be very happy with any of you, is he?”

No one commented, but they did seem less fearful and more curious. Finally, a man stepped forward. “Why would King Alexander work wi’ a witch?”

The large man came to a stop at the edge of the crowd, breathing hard, but at the comment about the king, he looked at her, his expression sharp. He leaned an ax against a broad shoulder, the blade pointing skyward and she froze. Was the guy some sort of executioner? The crowd shifted as they poked and prodded each other, until everyone knew he was there. He was hard to miss and they were obviously ill at ease. The guy was big, muscular, and ruthless-looking. He certainly scared Samantha with his size and menacing air. Would he side with these maniacs?

Another man carrying weapons slid through the crowd around to the other side.

She tugged against the rope, the bindings cutting into her wrists. “I’m not a witch, I’m an emissary to the king.”

A woman’s voice rose from the middle of the crowd. “She’s English. Ye can tell from her speech. They do things different than we do. It doona mean she’s a witch.”

“Shut it, Edina,” Willie said. “Stay out of this.”

A man placed his arm around the woman and shushed her.

“Yes. Yes, that’s true.” Samantha nodded vigorously, anxious to get a discussion going. “We English are a little odd in our appearance, that’s for sure.” The fact that she was American would only confuse the issue, and she definitely wanted to keep it simple. “Please, let me go now. The king will be very angry if I end up getting burned, and you can just imagine what he would do.”

She pulled, using her whole body to try and lift the pole, but it held firm. “Plus, I’m courteous and helpful and I give to charity and everything. You don’t want to burn a good-hearted person such as myself, right? Think of your eternal souls. And just imagine the smell. It…it won’t come out of your hair or clothes for weeks, I can promise you that.”

She laughed nervously, chattering now, seeming unable to stop herself, her gaze going to the guy in the back again, positive he’d affect the outcome somehow. “And think about what you want to teach your children. Is your aim to see them grow up to be animals who burn people? Do you want them to fear everyone who isn’t exactly like them? Can you just imagine if any of you went to the king’s court? Everyone there is fashionable to the point of ridiculous. They look nothing like you. Their hair is different. Their clothes are different. Perhaps you’d burn the king, himself? Shall I tell him so?” She tugged at the ropes again. “Or would you rather just let me go so we can forget about this entire thing?”

Willie waved an arm. “Did ye hear her? She’s threatenin’ us.”

“Oh, no. No, no. You misunderstood. No threat intended, I swear. This is just a discussion between friends, right?”

“Swear it to God Almighty, Himself.”

“I swear to God Almighty, Himself, I didn’t intend to threaten you. Scout’s honor,” she added for good measure.

Willie crossed his arms and studied her. “Ye look like a witch.”

“I’m not.”

“Open your mouth.”

“What for?”

Willie just glared.

Slowly, cautiously, Samantha opened her mouth a little at a time until it was wide.

Everyone in the crowd seemed to lean forward.

After a moment, Samantha closed her mouth and asked, “What are you looking for?”

“Frogs,” Willie said.

“Frogs?” Samantha couldn’t help it. She laughed again, a bit hysterically. “Why would I have frogs in my mouth?”

A gray cat jumped up on a beam of wood and lazily made its way along the piece before stopping to sit near her legs. Everyone gasped, including Samantha. Even she knew this wasn’t going to be good.

“Burn her,” Willie said. “Burn the witch and her familiar.”

Tears sprang to Samantha’s eyes. “No! Don’t burn me. Please, think about what you’re doing.”

She watched the man with the torch move slowly forward, fear on his face. The armed man followed behind.

Think, Samantha, think. She needed to use that big brain of hers to get out of this situation otherwise she could literally die. Here. Today. Now. “Wait. I’m begging you, please don’t. Do you have any idea how much getting burned will hurt? I scorched my finger and it was painful for days. Can you imagine having your whole body burnt to a crisp?”

The wide-eyed guy with the torch stopped.

Was that it? Was that all she had? Think.

The crowd looked at her, at each other, at the man standing at the back. Finally one man spoke up. “She has the right of it. It does hurt to get burned.”

“Nay,” another man said. “Witches don’t feel pain.”

“I do. These ropes are hurting me right now.”

Willie snorted. “Wi’ my own eyes, I saw her appear out of nowhere.”

“Not to be rude, but how is your vision?”

A few in the crowd laughed, earning a glare from Willie. “And look at her clothes.” His voice rose. “Only a temptress of Satan would wear such.”

“I told you. These aren’t mine. My boss, er…the king, made me wear these. My own clothes are extremely conservative and modest.”

“She has all the excuses, does she not?” Willie asked. “She says she’s from the king. She says her hair’s not her own. And when yer children die in their beds tonight, she’ll say it wasna of her doing. Will you listen to her then?”

Samantha shook her head. “No. He’s lying. I would never—”

“Now, I’m the liar, is it? Me, who ye’ve known the whole of yer lives.”

The crowd was murmuring again, getting louder, and panic built in Samantha’s chest. Anxiously, she glanced over at the huge, muscled, dark-haired man. He was the scariest-looking guy there. If he would help her, speak for her, perhaps she’d stand a chance. “Please, you need to listen to me! I would never—”

He was watching he crowd. They were all talking now, getting rowdier, the man holding the torch working up the courage to fling it, she could see it in his face. Mob mentality was taking over, and Willie knew it too. At his pleased expression, something inside of her—the pressure in her chest, a building of fear and anger—it all congealed and hardened. Calmness settled over her.

If this really was the 13th century, and she was starting to accept that it might be, then she was going to let them have it. She knew the belief systems of primitive people better than anyone. No more begging for her life to people who would not listen. No more of any of it. She very likely was going to die today, burned to death, not even a footnote in a dusty tome—but not before she gave these gutless little creeps the scare of their lives.

Maybe they’d let her go, maybe they wouldn’t, but reasoning with them just wasn’t going to happen. She’d studied cultures, beliefs, civilizations. She rolled her head, her shoulders, tilted her chin to align her throat for maximum voice effect, something she’d learned in her recent classes, and then let them have it where it would hurt their superstitious little backsides.

“People of Inverdeem.”

The voices started to quiet, but she continued to look upward, scared that if she didn’t she’d lose her courage. “I bring you a message from the great beyond.” She closed her eyes as she tried to remember Scotland’s history. If it really was 1260, the king would be nineteen years old at the moment, so, starting with that…

“The king will sign the Treaty of Perth and lay claim to the Western Isles.” Her voice rang out.

“The king will sire three children. Margaret, Alexander, and David. He will have one granddaughter, a girl. His line dies with her. He will die from a fall from his horse. After his death, there will be a war with England.”

That was pretty much all she could remember about King Alexander. She took another breath. “William Wallace will lead the Scots to victory over England. Thousands of Scots will be killed at Flodden. Mary, Queen of Scots, is beheaded by the order of Queen Elizabeth I of England. There will be a massacre at Glencoe.” She really shouldn’t be saying any of this. If she truly was in the past somehow, and was telling these people the future, could she be meddling with time? Changing the future?

If so, it didn’t seem to matter, there was no stopping her, the words welling as she kept her eyes closed, not daring to look at any of them. “The Jacobites will rise, ending with The Battle of Culloden. The Highland Potato Famine will cause people to be shipped to Canada and to Australia. The Stone of Destiny will be captured by England, and won't be returned to Scotland for six centuries.”

She took another breath. “The Crown of Scotland will be lost for over 750 years. It will be recovered by the greatest archaeologist of all time.” Well, why not? She was going to die in a moment; if she didn’t toot her own horn, who would?

She finally lowered her head to look at them all.

Fear. Wide-eyed disbelief. Hate. Determination. Pretty much what she’d expected.

She wasn’t done yet. Numbness overtook her as she thought of all the hundreds of women who had come before her, murdered by the likes of these people. Mobs. Inciters. Cruel and heartless people snatching at the opportunity to kill for selfish reasons. She felt a sudden kinship with those murdered women. Some killed for land, for their beauty, for petty jealousies. Others out of fear, for financial or social gain. For every woman burned as a witch upon every continent on earth. Anger welled within her and it felt good, pushing back fear and terror. She looked out at the quiet crowd and decided it was time for some frank talk. Time to hit them where it hurt. Right in their belief system.

“None of you believe I’m a witch. Not really. Some of you have attended other witch burnings or other mob-driven murders and have thought about them afterward, haven’t you? Perhaps wished you had spoken against men like this.” Her eyes shot Willie a scathing glance. “Maybe you noticed afterward that the one crying out the loudest, later gained the most in riches or property. Hmm. Now, where is that costly crown of mine?” She looked over to where Willie still held it in one hand. “Oh, there it is. Willie has it.”

He promptly dropped the priceless relic on the ground, then glared at her.

She let her gaze wander over the crowd. “Or perhaps you later wondered, as you hadn’t prevented murder, your Lord God would someday hold you accountable? When you simply watched from the sidelines and played no part, good or bad, could you possibly be to blame?”

She laughed, a harshly expelled breath full of the sarcasm she felt. “I’m here to tell you that, yes, you will be held accountable. I’ve seen atrocities committed by men. Seen hundreds of murdered bodies and the bones of helpless victims who had no one to speak for them. I’ve attended church my entire life and I know wrong when I see it. I know that if I don’t speak up and stand for the dead, in whatever capacity I’m able—be that honoring the victims, preventing further abuse, or shining a light on what they treasured, believed, or stood for—that I will personally be held accountable when I kneel before my Maker.”

She made eye contact with anyone she could, anyone whose gazes weren’t firmly planted on the ground. Besides Willie, the only one to hold her gaze was the man in the back. His green eyes burned with the same fervent fire as Willie’s and she knew she was doomed. It only made her anger grow. “When you see wrong and you don’t speak up, when you participate, actively or not, when you light a fire because someone tells you to, when you trap frightened and helpless people, make no mistake, you, personally, will pay for it one day.”

“Burn her.” Willie’s voice was deadly, toxic, and venomous.

* * *

Ian felt like he’d been punched in the gut, the sensation leaving him stunned, astonished, and breathless. The knowledge she’d imparted about the future: of the king, of wars, of queens beheading queens, famines, even the crown he’d so recently buried. The hair on his arms stood on end still. He didn’t believe in witches, but he might have to change his opinion on seers.

But it was actually what she’d said about the others, those who’d been murdered in the past that had amazed and affected him most. She’d given voice to his feelings, thoughts, and all he’d dwelt on all these years whenever thoughts of his mother had risen to the surface. He was breathless, staring, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

Her chin lifted and she drew a breath.

What would she say next? He couldn’t wait to hear more.

“That’s it then, is it? Burn the witch?” There were tears in her eyes. “Well, you know what? Get stuffed, you backward, brutish barbarians. All of you with your stupid superstitions and your murdering ways. If I’m such a big, scary witch, then why don’t I just curse the lot of you right now? Now there’s an idea I can get behind.”

Torch held high, Colin crept a step closer. Dugald advanced behind him.

“Hold it right there, torch boy. Stay where you are or risk annihilation.”

The man actually stopped in his tracks and Ian could see fear and sweat on Colin’s face when he glanced over his shoulder at the others in the crowd as if seeking support, or permission.

“If you’re going to flame me like a roasted marshmallow, then I’m having my say first.” She tilted her head and looked up at the sky. “Grandpa, if you can hear me, I found it. I found The Crown of Scotland. I love you. I’ll see you soon. Save me a place at a dig site in heaven.”

Once again, Ian glanced over his shoulder at the undisturbed dirt around the monument. He’d be asking her about that crown later.

She lowered her head and looked out at the crowd, meeting gazes, her own stern, belligerent. “As for the rest of you. Think long and hard before you do this. I’m going to give you one last chance. You need to untie me, give me the crown, and send me on my way. If I have it in my possession, I will leave this place and swear never to return.”

There were a few murmurs, and Ian was amazed to hear those closest to him whisper in favor of letting her go. Who was she?

The woman took another breath, and Ian’s attention dropped to her cleavage. Exposed as it was, he imagined most men here were looking their fill—and he had an irrational, possessive desire to take off his shirt and cover her.

“Think about it. You’ve burned witches here before, haven’t you? What happened afterward? Did your animals still die? Did your crops still whither? Did any children sicken? Burn me and you will all be dead within the year.”

There were gasps in the crowd. Some stepped back, away from the helpless woman standing in the middle of a woodpile, only to be trapped in the crowd. In that moment, Ian adored the female. He well knew that bad things happened all the time. All part of life. She was smart, this girl, working on their everyday fears as she was.

“I mean it. Let me go, right now. Don’t make me say it again.”

The crowd backed further away, a young girl cried out to release the witch, and Ian couldn’t help it—he smiled. The woman was magnificent.

The villagers looked at each other, some trading whispers.

“Remember when all the pigs died?”

“Aye. That was but a year after the witch was burned.”

“What about Connie’s baby?”

Fear grew like fog, spreading from person to person. He’d never seen the like. A powerless girl, holding them all in her palm.

“Colin.” Willie waved a hand to urge the torchbearer forward. “Burn her, quick. She’s cursing us all.”

She smiled at Colin, an amused curve of her lips. “If I were to curse anyone, I’d especially curse the one who set the fire.”

The torchbearer gripped the end of the torch with both hands, but, otherwise, didn’t move.

Ian could see that the woman’s face and chest gleamed with sweat, fear, and admired her spirit all the more.

“Do you truly believe that any of you has the power over witches?” Her voice rang out. “What do you think really happens when you burn a witch? You free her trapped soul from her body and she flies free like a demon and is able to do all the mischief she wants. Burn me, and I’ll never leave this place. Home, sweet home,” she crooned.

Ian laughed. He shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but the girl was incredible. He thought of his own mother, in this same location, same situation…if only things could have been different for her.

Willie still wasn’t ready to give it up. “If you don’t burn a witch, it will rise again. Colin. Light her up!”

The torchbearer shook his head. “I’ll not. My wife expects a babe.”

“I’ll do it myself.” Willie limped to Colin, snatched the torch, and swiveled to face the girl.

Horror and fear writ plain across her face and she struggled against the ropes. “Stop. Don’t do this. I…I…I could tell you things. About the king of England. The barons taking his power. About…about the battle at…at…”

Willie snaked closer, Ian shook his head at Dugald, warning him off, and circled the crowd in the other direction.

The woman straightened again, her chin lifted, and she called out, “Kill me and I will take all your firstborn children with me. Every last one of them born now and in the future. They will all be mine!”

Gasps in the crowd had Ian rolling his eyes. She was hitting them where it would hurt, but she’d also just made things harder for him. They’d never forget a threat like that.

Willie held the torch high, looked at the girl in triumph, and flung it toward her. “Burn, Witch!”

The girl screamed at the top of her lungs as Ian caught the end of the torch. He met her gaze, held it, and memorized her expression of fear mingled with hope and defiance. In that moment, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld.

Torch high, he turned and faced the crowd. “You forget yourselves. This is my place. My land—my people—my choices. No one is killing this girl. Not while there’s a single breath left in my body.”