Page 8 of Bewitching the Knight (A Knight’s Tale #2)

I an glared first at Willie, then at the shocked faces of the crowd, meeting gazes that quickly dropped. He snorted in disgust. “How many times need I say it? There are no such things as witches. All that burning a beautiful woman will get you is a well-deserved spot in hell.”

Ian flung the torch toward a nearby creek and it twisted and whooshed noisily three times before landing with a splash and sizzle. He heard the woman behind him exhale sharply. He turned, nodded at the white-faced female behind him, and then glared at the villagers once more.

He was aware in stopping the witch-burning, he undid all the hard work he’d wrought with his people, and his jaw clenched painfully hard. It couldn’t be helped. It was hardly his fault the lot of them were daft.

Ian could hear the woman crying softly behind him and tried to control his reaction, tried not to let the past overtake the present, but anger filled him and he said, through gritted teeth, “Do any of ye honestly think that I will ever let you burn a woman here again? I’m no longer a young child to be shoved into submission as murder is done. Be glad I was here to stop ye this time, else I’d have done butchery of my own this night.”

He gestured to the stone in the middle of the square. “Was I not clear when I raised the monument to my murdered mother? There are no such creatures as witches, only frightened women burned by fearful or evil men. If ye fear of curses and such, why not worry about facing your maker and explainin’ to him why ye did murder?”

“But you heard her,” Willie voiced his indignation, even as his shoulders stooped as he cowered slightly. “She cursed us. She cursed you too. She’ll take yer firstborn.”

There were a couple of nods as neighbors looked at each other in confirmation, but for the most part, everyone waited for his reaction.

“Truly? Then we heard two different things, did we not? What I heard was a frightened girl trying to talk the lot of you out of burning her to death!” Ian shouted the last. “Perhaps I should have ye trade places, hand her a torch, and see what gibberish ye spout as ye try and save yourselves from a horrible death. Then we can use your words against ye and pat ourselves on the back for shedding blood, aye?”

Willie looked down, but his lips were still tight, mutinous.

Ian felt his anger rising higher. Standing there, so close to the spot his mother begged for her own life, as he’d pleaded alongside—how dare they? Well, never again. “I like my new plan. Shall I give her the chance to burn the lot of ye? Then ye can have a turn at beggin’ for your lives the way my mother did all those years ago. Your children can plead, as I did.”

He pointed behind him. “But this woman might not be swayed. As none of you came to her defense this day, why should she come to yours? And I’ll let her, you know. I’ll light the torches myself as each of you entreats her mercy and the air is filled wi’ the stench of cooking flesh. What say you?”

No one moved, but some of the women and children started crying, hugging themselves and each other.

“Let me be clear. If the lot of you believe this village is overrun wi’ witches I’ll not lift a hand to rid my village of them. And make no mistake. This village is mine.” He bellowed the last word, then turned to look at the wide-eyed beauty. “What say you, girl? Shall I light the torches and let you burn them all? Because I will, if that be your fancy.”

The girl shook her brightly-colored head. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” she said, her voice quavering.

He turned back to the mob again. “Ha! Hear you that? I’ve given a supposed witch the chance to kill you all, and does she snatch at the possibility? No, she responds as a good Christian woman, wi’ horror at the thought. Shame on the lot of ye. If she’d possessed the ability to smite and curse you all, ’twoud be nothin’ less than ye deserve. Now cut her down.”

The villagers stood frozen in place.

“Now!” he roared.

Gwain, the butcher, disentangled from his wife and daughter and cut the girl’s ropes. He helped her out of the woodpile as Ian watched his every move.

The girl trembled slightly, tears drying on her cheeks, and she looked up at Ian, gratitude writ on her beautiful pale face. The otherworldly red of her hair glowed in the sunshine and she rubbed her wrists as, together, they turned to watch the villagers disperse, one by one, stealing away without a sound.

“Thank you,” she said, letting out a shuddering breath and straightening her shoulders.

He exhaled. “Aye, lass. Now you’re to come wi’ me and explain yerself.”

She swallowed, nodded, and asked, “Are you Ian MacGregor? The man who worked for King Alexander the III?”

“Aye. How d’ye know me? Were ye at court, then?”

Looking achingly beautiful, she gave a slight smile, her teeth impossibly straight and white. “I’m sort of a fan.”

“A fan?”

“An admirer.”

“Are you now?” Considering he’d just saved her life, that didn’t surprise him, but it warmed his chest just the same. Had she been present at the tourneys, then?

“I am. And I’m in your debt.” Her eyes were a lovely shade of brown, a light warm amber, filled with gratitude, and mayhap something more he didn’t understand. He inhaled slowly, his heart starting a slow pound. She was a beauty, that was for certain. Women about Inverdeem didn’t generally smile at him, and, even knowing the cause, it made him slightly nervous. His deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation kicked in and he narrowed his eyes. “And you. Did not the good Lord give you a portion of sense? Did ye truly have to curse the lot o’ them?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Begging your pardon, miss.” A village woman sidled forward and held out The Crown of Scotland.

“Oh, thank you.” As the woman beside him reached for it, Ian, chest gone cold, snatched it away, unable to believe what he was seeing, what he held in his hands. When they’d mentioned a crown earlier, this crown, he’d not believed they could be talking of such.

Wrenching his gaze from the treasure gripped in his hand, he met Dugald’s sharp gaze, then looked into the girl’s worried face. “Where did ye get this?” Even to himself, his voice sounded deeper, menacing, and he wasn’t surprised when the girl took a cautious step backward and glanced away.

He followed her gaze to his mother’s monument, then looked back at her again. “Ye dug it up.”

She glanced around. “Uh… maybe we could go somewhere to talk?”

“Come wi’ me.” Crown in one hand, he grasped her wrist with the other, and tugged her behind him as he strode toward the castle road, Dugald following behind.

She ran after him, trying to keep her balance. “Okay, I’m coming.”

His mouth pressed into a thin, tight line. He might not believe in witches, but he had no difficulty at all believing in thieves.

* * *

MacGregor held the crown in one hand and Samantha’s wrist in the other as he dragged her away.

Frankly, even if she wasn’t having a major fangirl moment, she was glad to go. Good riddance to Willie and the do-nothings.

They fast-walked up the hill toward the castle and she quickly lost her breath, making her grateful he tugged her along. She needed the help. But she was starting to think the guy had an attitude problem. His hand was tight on her wrist, his mouth pressed into a thin line, his jaw thrust forward. All in all, he seemed pretty angry.

However, she wasn’t afraid, she realized. Not exactly. Apparently when a guy saved a girl from a slavering mob, it formed a bond of instant trust.

She glanced at the crown swinging in his other hand with each step. She needed to get it back, but that wasn’t her top priority at the moment. The fact that she was in the 13th century and Ian MacGregor had just faced down an entire village and saved her life was sort of distracting her. If she wasn’t getting so breathless, she’d sigh over his hard, generous muscles, his vivid green eyes, and broad cheekbones. He was tall, well over six feet, with dark stubble covering his wide jaw and cleft chin, his dark shoulder-length hair thick with a slight wave. The man was devastatingly handsome: masculine, fascinating, sigh-worthy. Her heart thumped. She knew she needed to get hold of herself, but it was Ian Freaking MacGregor!

At least she was pretty sure it was. He’d said so. And she could see Inverdeem Castle up ahead, with a fully restored turret on the south side. Or rather, the original turret in all its former…er… current glory. She’d been there enough times to recognize the layout. Either someone had fully restored the castle, turret and all—like that would ever happen—or she was now in Medieval Scotland.

So it had to be him. He’d been described as a giant of a man. Check. Dark-haired in a clan known for their red. Check. Muscular, powerful, and well-built. Check. The guy could stand in for Hercules any day of the week. Brilliant green eyes. Check, and swoon. Even the five o'clock shadow didn’t detract in the least.

She’d already been a fangirl of his. Had thought it such a shame that the brave, wonderful, strong, handsome, loyal man had died at the age of twenty-nine. Still, even though she knew, she had to be sure. She’d just ask him for a few more details. Just as soon as she could catch her breath and—

“What are ye starin’ at, lass?” He practically snarled the words and she started. But she’d excuse him on account of what he’d been through this day. Her rescue couldn’t have been easy on him—not after his mother had been burned as a witch. And having to take her side against his own people had obviously left him discombobulated. “Are there a lot of Ian’s living here about?”

His dark brows slammed together. “A handful. What of it?”

“Just to be clear, are you Ian MacGregor, the son of Sinclair MacGregor, and the late bodyguard to King Alexander?”

His eyes narrowed on her as his grip on her wrist tightened. “ I’ll ask the questions here. I’ll start with, who the devil are ye?”

“Samantha Ann Ryan.”

“Samantha.” Her name rolled off his tongue, the R in Ryan becoming a syllable in itself, and she about died at his musical accent and deep, bottomless voice, and that curl to his lips.

She sighed. Nodded. “Yes. And you’re Ian, correct?”

He stopped and she noted he still wasn’t the least bit breathless from their journey up the road. Her own breath hitched as she stared straight up into his handsome face, her favorite historical figure come to life, his—

“Ye’ve a message for me, then? Is that it?” He lifted the crown he carried in his other hand. “King Alexander has sent you?”

She shook her head to clear it. “Oh. Well, not exactly.”

Clear green eyes narrowed again. “Then what, exactly?”

She had to stop staring at the guy. Anyway, what was she supposed to tell him? That she’d studied his life years from now, in the future? That she’d somehow discovered a wormhole, or time travel, or…or crown travel with Jerry? That she was the only person to find the crown after he’d buried it all those years ago? And that the link between them was making her feel star-struck and needy and possessive? He’d consider her crazy and a thief. She felt crazy. And, if she was being honest, she was a thief. But if not the truth, then what was she supposed to say? “Um…see…the thing is—”

“Aye?”

“Uh…the thing is I can’t really tell you anything right now,” she finished lamely.

“At least tell me how you knew where to find the crown? Were you watching me? If so, how? I buried it on the darkest of nights. Not even my most trusted man knows the location. I dinna believe in witches. But if I did, I’d think you’d scryed for it.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “I didn’t scry, use divination, or a crystal ball. I studied.”

“Studied what?”

“Er…you,” she blurted.

“Me?” He stared at her, long and hard. “I dinna take yer meaning.”

“Look,” she gestured toward his left hand. “I’m going to need that crown back. Just to check something. Then we can talk, okay?”

He shot her a narrow-eyed, suspicious look, then dragged her through the open castle gates, and they passed through a thriving community, many who stopped what they were doing to stare at her. Two boys mucking out stables crossed themselves, and a girl carrying a bucket of water toward the open kitchen doors ran, spilling the contents as she looked at Samantha over her shoulder. Samantha could see meat roasting on a spit and could smell bread baking. Dogs wandered about, and adults gaped, open-mouthed, as they sidled past.

Ian dragged her inside the castle doors and she glanced around at the stone walls, the lit candles.

She could see through to the hall with its numerous tables and benches. She breathed in the sights and smells. She’d been in the ruins of this fortress numerous times and it always had the slightly hollow feel of a place long deserted. But not anymore.

Two servants shuffled past carrying platters. A child and a dog followed in their footsteps, all of them staring. She was excited to see an arched alcove and window off to the right, long gone in the future, the craftsmanship simply speculated about.

This was so cool!

Ian still had hold of her wrist, his skin warm against hers, and he tugged her along behind him and up the stairs. She followed, taking everything in. He dragged her down a long hallway, then up another flight and she realized they were headed toward the tower. In the future, it was half-crumbled. She couldn’t wait to see it in its original form.

He opened the door and gestured her inside. Yes. Another set of stairs. If they kept climbing she might get an incredible view.

The door slammed shut behind her, and, as she whirled around, she heard the click and snap of metal latching.

Iron bars barricaded the window. Prison bars, through which she easily saw Ian heading downstairs. “Wait. You are so not leaving me here.”

He ignored her.

“Please, stop. Why have you put me in here? Are you kidding me?” She tightened her grip on the metal bars and pulled. “I thought you didn’t believe in witches.”

He stopped at that. “I don’t.” His harsh words rumbled up the stairs, reverberated off the close stone space.

“Well, then, what would your mother think of you treating a lady this way?”

That got him turned around and he stormed upward.

His expression frightened her badly enough that she wanted to remove her clutching fingers from the bars, in case he smashed them with his fist, but pride wouldn’t let her.

He bent and his face filled the space, inches from her own. “Never, ever mention my mother in the same breath as witches.”

“After today,” she said softly, “I sort of see her as a kindred spirit.”

He seemed to unbend a bit at that, his face relaxing before he nodded once. “Aye. Perhaps she would feel the same.”

“How long are you keeping me here?”

“Until it pleases me to release you.”

“But…” Her voice wavered. “When will that be?”

“When I have the answers I wish for.”

“Ask them, then.” But she was talking to his back. Feeling bereft, deserted, she watched him walk away, his broad shoulders encased in a red shirt and tunic, a belt at his waist, chausses tucked into his leather boots which made slapping sounds against the stone as he descended. She watched until he was out of sight, then sighed, turned around, and leaned against the door.

She was an idiot. She needed to get the crown and get out of there, not moon after the guy. Anyway, so much for her crush on him. Apparently he didn’t reciprocate in the slightest. She pushed off the door and headed resolutely up the stairs, curious to see what was at the top.

She was the most resourceful person she knew. She didn’t need Neanderthal man to let her out.

No one, not even Ian MacGregor, would keep her behind bars.

* * *

Jerry ran his tongue along his broken front tooth once more and tentatively touched the split in his lip. He winced. Fear had turned to exhaustion, and he no longer resisted the two men hauling him across the forest floor.

It was common knowledge that a person should never allow kidnappers to take them to a different location. Wherever they were taking him, it wasn’t to a five-star hotel, all-expenses paid. This would only get worse for him. But how to get away?

Facing forward, he simply let his toes drag for the most part, his arms wrapped around their thickly muscled shoulders. They held him at both wrists as they followed the two savages in the lead. Occasionally he worked up the courage to ask, “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” but it never did him a bit of good. They simply ignored him as one would a laundry sack, or a…a…carcass.

A branch scratched his face and he whimpered. He’d been captured by the four smelly men, or rather, had run straight into their arms when he’d gone looking for help. That’s what he’d told himself he was doing, anyway. Looking for help, not running away and saving his own hide.

He’d told them about Samantha and the villagers, and pleaded for their assistance. The men had at first looked astonished by his appearance, his story, but then they’d dragged him off, speaking a language he didn’t understand. Gaelic, no doubt. They’d punched him hard in the face, and then twice in the stomach when he’d resisted.

Twenty minutes later his face and stomach still ached. Now and again he tried to get his feet under him, but his legs just weren’t working that well at the moment, and the men didn’t seem to care either way, so he just let them drag him along.

He suspected he was in shock. That had to be it. Maybe even hallucinating, though if he was, it was entirely too real. But what did he know? Hallucinations were by their very nature realistic, right?

A short while later, arms aching, he managed to get to his feet and walk a few steps. “Please.” He stumbled, but neither man looked at him. “I need your help. My friend’s name is Samantha Ryan. She could be in real danger. It actually looked like they were…they were…going to burn her.” Jerry realized he was crying again. Surely he must have been mistaken. He must have misconstrued the entire situation. No way could that horrific scene have been real.

As he walked, the pressure on his arms eased significantly, and he realized that far from being giants, the men beside him were actually a few inches shorter than himself. That made him feel slightly better. Stronger.

He took a few deep breaths. Maybe if he spoke to them in a calm, matter-of-fact way, they’d be more likely to respond. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. But could you please tell me what is going on? Where are you taking me? Why have you detained me?”

The two men looked between each other, said something in a foreign tongue, then one spoke to him—a clear threat—in the same language, his hand crushing Jerry’s wrist for a few seconds before easing up once again.

Jerry muffled a cry as fear crawled up his spine. He could feel sweat forming again on his upper lip, his brow, his back. He blinked back more tears. When he thought of Scotland, what came to mind was men in kilts, mountains, and the Loch Ness Monster. Not gangs, kidnappings, and witch burnings.

Granted, he’d never been to any part of Great Britain before and didn’t know a lot about the place, but he watched the news. If there were bands of gangs roaming about the Highlands, he’d have thought he’d have heard about it, that there would be warnings on the news at the very least. He’d heard about terrorists in other countries, but never a word about Scotland. Perhaps this was a new thing, and, just his luck, he’d chosen the wrong time to visit.

He blamed Samantha for this. If she hadn’t found that stupid crown, none of this would have happened. Why hadn’t he taken that job offer last year when he’d had the chance? Why had he fixated on Samantha? Why hadn’t he let well enough alone? For all he knew she really was a witch.

He sniffed, and teared up again. She was probably dead by now. And if they’d do that to a beautiful woman, there was no telling what they’d do to him. A tear ran down his cheek and he sniffed again.

One of his captors said something to the other, a guttural dog-like yipping of words, and both men laughed, causing a chill to run up Jerry’s spine. He was in so much trouble. He needed to think!

He couldn’t overpower four men, and, even if he could somehow get away, he doubted he could outrun them. Talking his way out of mishaps had worked his entire life. If he could get them to admit they spoke English, maybe he could use whatever skills he had to get out of this mess. It was worth a try, anyway.

“Please. You’ve got to let me go. I’m an important professor at my university, an American citizen. I promise you I’ll be missed. I’m sure they’ll pay to get me back. This is the first time that I’ve visited Scotland and, if I’ve broken the law, I think you should know that I came with a colleague, Samantha Ryan, and I know for a fact that she has all the necessary permits. Granted, she shouldn’t have been digging at night, and mind you, I did try and stop her, but in the end, I think the find itself will be of sufficient value to let the authorities look the other way, don’t you?”

They completely ignored him, which told him exactly nothing.

His jaw set. “The thing is, if you could see your way clear to letting me go, I’m sure that…”

They stumbled out of the woods and into a clearing and Jerry’s voice trailed off as he took in the four horses. Horses? He’d never ridden in his life. Amid multiple unheard protests from him, they mounted, secured him behind one of the men, and took off. For at least two hours he held on for dear life until they reached a village and castle up ahead, the setup eerily similar to where he’d left Samantha.

He hadn’t realized the Scottish lived in such straitened circumstances. He’d have expected regular housing, stores, cars—not thatched roof huts, horses, and other animals roaming about. Simply archaic. But the thriving fields surrounding the village proclaimed this a farming community, so maybe things were different out in the country.

Regardless, hope lightened his spirit. There were people down there, which meant he’d have a chance to appeal to other, hopefully more rational, folk for help.

When they made it to the village Jerry was too shocked to speak. The people lived like dogs. Dirt, mud, animals roaming free, and what looked to be sewage in the street. Utter squalor. And the smell!

About fifteen or twenty people stopped what they were doing to stare at him and he ogled right back, trying to see a spark of intelligence or even humanity beneath the dirt and grime. A woman lugging a wood bucket paused to gape. A man carrying an armful of kindling backed against a hovel. Everyone’s clothing was coarse and of homespun quality, and no one, not even the teenagers, had a scrap of modern apparel or technology visible on their persons.

Jerry swallowed the appeals and entreaties he’d mentally rehearsed and took comfort in the fact his captors rode toward the castle in the distance. Surely things could only be better up there?

Or not.

They pulled him off the horse and he hit the ground with bruising force, jarring his left hip, and eliciting a miserable groan. They hauled him up and marched him inside the castle—to the man in charge if the ornate chair he was seated on was anything to go by—and, at first glance, the guy gave the impression of insanity. Jerry’s stomach knotted. Crazy was not a good sign.

The guy was late twenties, maybe, with a broad forehead, high cheekbones, and shoulder-length white-blond hair. His face sported a short, barely there, reddish beard. But it was the icy blue eyes that made the hair on Jerry’s neck rise. It was like looking into the eyes of a rabid dog on the verge of attack.

He took one look at Jerry, laughed, not an ordinary chuckle either, but maniacal, like he was hopped up on something, and even the men who’d brought Jerry forward backed away.

Ice-cold fear crawled down Jerry’s spine. He was in so much trouble.

The flat of a big foot shoved at the backs of both legs, forcing Jerry to his knees as all around him spoke that guttural language. Finally, one of the kidnappers edged forward, made eye contact with Jerry, and gestured toward the crazy man. Jerry looked up and stuttered out, “Greetings, your worship.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it.

Crazy Guy’s eyes widened and he looked around in delight. “Weel, weel,” he said in heavily accented English. “What have you brought me then, lads? A Sassenach? Shall we liven up the afternoon and torture him for our entertainment? Or save him for this evening?”

Jerry gulped in air and swallowed repeatedly, his chest tight with fear. “Torture?” He cringed, his shoulders hunching. “I…I…please, don’t.”

The man leaned back in his chair, threw one leg over the intricately carved arm, and studied Jerry, a calculating expression on his face. “Why should I not kill you now?”

Surely he’d misunderstood the man’s thickly accented English. “K…Kill me?”

“Aye.” The man was openly enjoying Jerry’s fear, his smile reaching his crazed, pale eyes. “Kill you. You came from MacGregor lands, and no doubt you are here to spy upon me and mine.”

Unable to look away from the man’s glacial gaze, Jerry straightened cautiously and was relieved when the guy standing next to him didn’t shove him back down. He didn’t dare stand, but cowering in the dirt wasn’t doing him any favors. “No. No, your worship. I don’t even know who you are, so how could I want to spy on you?”

The guy laughed at that. “You dinna know me?”

Jerry shook his head, hoping he hadn’t offended the guy.

“You doona ken I’m Mad Malcolm Campbell?”

Jerry froze, sensing a trick. “Sure…surely they don’t call you that?”

The man laughed. “Not to my face, no.” He leaned down. “D’ye think I’m mad?”

As a hatter. “No. Of course not.”

“Because I am no’. I’m no’ daft!”

Jerry shook his head. “No.”

Seeming to calm, the madman took a long look at Jerry. “You’re different.”

Jerry didn’t comment.

Mad Malcolm smiled. “I like that about you.” He picked up a slice of meat and tore off a chunk with sharp teeth, chewing. “They found you fleeing MacGregor land. Your speech is strange, and your clothes are those of a fool. Where are you from?”

“America, sir.”

“Where?” The guy truly sounded confused.

“New York.”

“York?

“New York. In America.”

“What is your name?”

“Jerry Callahan.”

“Jerry.” Mad Malcolm mangled the pronunciation. He waved a hand. “You’re naught but an English spy.”

Jerry breathed in carefully and tried not to react. “No. I’m not a spy.”

“What do you on MacGregor land, then?”

Hoping to impress the man, Jerry blurted out the truth. “Finding The Crown of Scotland.”

The man froze, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He lowered it. “What did you say?”

Jerry froze too, immediately regretting his words. “We…I…Samantha…we…she…dug up The Crown of Scotland.”

Mad Malcolm leaned forward. “You lie.” The words were harsh, but Mad Malcolm’s expression betrayed interest.

Jerry’s throat tightened. “No. It’s the truth.”

“Describe it. And know this. I beheld it wi’ my own eyes not six years ago. I’ll know if you lie If you do, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

The breath left Jerry in a rush as tears filled his eyes. Cut out his tongue? Fine tremors ran through his body. He wouldn’t be so frightened if he didn’t believe the guy would actually do it. Anyway, was this a trick of some kind? How could the guy have possibly seen it six years ago? It had been buried for hundreds of years.

What was he doing there? How had he gotten himself into this situation? Where had this group of crazies come from? Why had he even mentioned the crown? Most important of all, how did he get back home to his safe life?

Jerry looked into the other man’s eyes and swallowed. He was just glad he’d gotten a good look at the thing with his flashlight and hoped with every part of his being they were talking about the same crown. “It’s…it has three prongs that jut upward. There is a ruby attached to each tip. There are gemstones, and three fleur-de-lis. There is a cross in front, covered in pearls.”

“Hmm.”

Jerry waited, tense, not trusting the man’s sly expression.

“I may find a need for you, after all. Ye’ll stay here wi’ me, aye?”

“Stay here? I…but…I have a family to get home to.”

“Regardless, you will stay here, will you not? At least ’til the matter of the crown has been seen to. D’ye understand?”

Jerry was too afraid to argue. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Mad Malcolm smiled at him, nodded to his men, and Jerry was hauled up and away, scared of what would happen next, but grateful to leave the room with his tongue—and his life—intact.