“I was too busy screaming for my life to notice.”
He shoved his finger into his ear. “I still cannot hear properly.”
He had a look at her hair. It was tied back with chicken wire into a tail hanging past the back of her neck. That was it. No pins, no clips, no adornments, just—chicken wire.
“I was harsh with you earlier, Miss Locksley. Forgive me.”
“What of your senses?” she asked with a playful arch of her brow.
He smiled softly and shrugged his shoulders. “They have abandoned me yet again.”
She stared at his stitched cheekbone and then sank her gaze into his. “You’re going to have a nasty scar from that slice. Who stitched you?”
“I did.”
Her eyes opened wider. “You stitched yourself?”
He nodded and forced himself to look away. He stared into Elia’s curious smile.
“How did you do it with no mirror?” Miss Locksley asked, tugging on the sleeve of his léine. “Are you crazy or something?”
“Crazy?” he asked darkly, not liking the sound of it.
She pointed to her temple and twirled her finger. “You know…nuts…mad.”
“Mad, aye. I’m mad. I thought it might be you…” He smiled and shook his head. “…but no. ’Tis me.”
“Oh gosh, what am I laughing at?” she suddenly lamented. She lifted her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “My life as I knew it, is over.”
He looked around to see if anyone heard it. “Miss—”
“Yes. Yes, I know.” She lifted her head and whispered. “I’ll be quiet about it.”
“’Tis for your own good.”
He couldn’t forget his results from today. No one knew her. No one had lost her. Kestrel. What kind of name was it?
“Oh! I almost forgot to tell you,” she told him with excitement now etching her face. “I remembered the name on the brooch!”
“What was it?” he asked, swearing at himself silently for enjoying her company so much. He could sit here and listen to her for the rest of the night.
“Pendragon.”
He raised a brow. “Arthur?”
“You’ve read of him?”
He nodded. “I have a copy of Monmouth’s Historia regum Britanniae.”
He was sure her eyes just misted over.
“I have a library. You have not seen it?”
“No,” she breathed, “I would love to though. I’m a historian,” she leaned in and whispered to him. “I’ve never seen such an early edition. My heart is pounding.”
He had the insane urge to grin at her and not stop. “Your cheeks are flushed.”
They grew even redder.
He wished they were alone.
“I have many volumes that will interest you. No originals, of course, but I do know the king.”
She laughed, and if they were alone, he might have laughed with her.
He had the servers bring them wine. They drank and she kept smiling when she caught his eye, or he caught hers. He didn’t smile back. He tried to remain strong and in control, but he hadn’t made it one day avoiding her, without falling under the spell of her eyes, or her voice, or the soft flush of her cheeks.
“Come.” He finished what was in his cup and stood up. “I will take you to my library.”
She practically leaped into his arms. “Ready!”
“Did you like your cupcake?” she asked him as he led her to the castle.
“I’m saddened that there were no more. I could have eaten another one or two.”
“I’ll bake more if Cook lets me,” she promised.
“You will tell me if he causes you any trouble.”
“He was grouchy when I started but he came around. We’re friends now.”
He was glad she was making friends, but if she trusted someone enough to tell them…
What if she wasn’t mad? What if she was as sane as the town chaplain? If this was all real and she traveled through time—no. He simply couldn’t fathom it.
He led her up the stone stairway to the second landing.
“Who taught you to read?” she asked.
“Edward had me instructed privately.”
“Edward the king?”
He nodded.
“Elia told me he raised you after the death of your parents.”
“Murdered,” he corrected. “They were murdered by the Lancasters.”
“Yes, of course. Murdered,” she amended, shivering in her spot. “Was he a good foster father?”
“Aye. He was.”
“Is Richard very much like him?”
His scowl returned. “Richard is nothing like him. I assure you, Miss Locksley—”
“Kestrel.”
“If your story is true and you are a historian from the future, nothing you have read about Richard can compare to who he truly is. If you ever have the ill-fortune of meeting him, stay away from him.”
He heard one of the guards outside shouting. “What is it?” he called to another running in the hall.
“Tis a letter! A letter from the king!”
*
Charles Lancaster tossed the letter onto his desk, followed by his glasses. He rubbed his bloodshot blue eyes. There were no leads on his missing daughter. She was gone, snatched away in the middle of the day without a trace.
Charles considered himself a civilized man but if he got her back, he was going to kill everyone involved.
What if he was the reason she was taken?
He looked at the framed photo of her on his desk and wiped his eyes. His beautiful girl. They were going to meet for dinner. Her friends called him long before their date. She was gone. She’d gone into a building and disappeared into an office. But there was no office. No fourth floor. Her friends had to have been mistaken. That’s what the police said.
But Kes’ father feared something much bigger was at work.
Chapter Eight
“You do this every day?” Kes asked Claire, the laundress, while Claire turned clothes with a wooden wash bat in a giant barrel.
The news of the king’s return in a week turned Nicholas’ mood worse than before. He’d shown her to the library and left her there. She hadn’t seen him again for the rest of the night.
“Aye, every day.”
“For everyone here?” Kes asked, incensed while Claire rubbed the soiled garment with lye soap and continued turning.
“Aye.”
Either the earl or the king was going to have to do something about this or the help was going to walk
