This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Open your mouth! Scream!
Her friends at the society must be doing this to her as a—her knees almost buckled. She opened her mouth as a horse was almost upon her. The red-stained blade of a sword swung over her head. It was blocked by another, slightly shorter blade. Sparks rained down on her head.
This wasn’t happening! The sound of metal clashing against metal boomed and clanged in her ears. She covered them with her hands and shook her head. “No! NO!”
The man whose short blade had saved her shouted at her to get behind his horse and continued fighting. There were hundreds of others in the same dark armor that he wore, while significantly less others wore silver. This was no re-enactment group. This was a battle. Men were dead around her. She had…somehow…come to the middle ages. No! But they came close swinging their swords at her. It was real! She screamed as each new foe appeared, his snorting horse breathing its fiery breath above her.
Her dark knight fought all who came at her. He blocked every blow with a jab or a swipe across the belly or throat. He was quick and strong, and brutal. Kes didn’t want to witness this, but she was thankful he was here protecting her.
His eyes, staring into those of his enemies were like glaciers and just as cold. He swung his blade as if he were swinging a baseball bat. Blood and guts flew. Kes screamed and wept. Oh, it was real. She was convinced of it when the blood of one of the savage knight’s victims splashed across her face.
That was it. She couldn’t handle anymore and fainted on the battlefield.
Chapter Two
Bridlington, England
July 1485
Nicholas de Marre, Earl of Scarborough, barely dodged a swipe that would have killed him. The bloody blade sliced a thin cut along his cheekbone. His opponent should be quite proud of himself, for rarely did anyone make him bleed on the battlefield. If they had, it wasn’t because Nicholas was distracted.
Nothing distracted him while he fought. It was what made him so deadly. But he’d never seen a woman appear as if right out of the glimmering air just a few feet away from him. For she was not there one moment, and the next, she was. She was dressed…he didn’t know how to describe her clothes. There was no time to examine them further. Or to ponder why her huge anguished gaze made his chest feel odd. He had to kill his way to get to her. She was terrified and screaming, holding her hands to her ears. When the Reds moved toward her with intentions on killing her, he rode into the fray and fought and killed for her.
She’d finally stopped screaming because she’d fainted. He had to dismount and pick her up. He wasn’t sure if she was solid form or a vapor that would dissipate when he touched her. He was happy to discover that she was solid.
He tossed her over his shoulder and ran with her back to his horse. He heaved her over the side of the saddle and fought two more men on foot. He disposed of them with full, air-cutting power, killing them both.
He was tired. His arms were aching. He could hardly breathe. He’d been fighting in Nottingham for the last three weeks. On the way home for a few weeks of rest, away from fighting, he ran into a skirmish just outside Bridlington. About a hundred Reds against his seventy men. Thankfully, his men were making a quick end of their opponents.
He had a few moments to tear out of his armor, piece by piece and leave it where it fell from his body.
His heart thundered and his breath stalled when another man charged him.
Without his armor, he felt lighter, almost weightless. He swung with both hands and the victim’s head flew from his body.
The fight was almost over. The Reds were retreating. His men could handle the few who were left.
He motioned to his lieutenant to meet him with the men at the castle. With his path cleared, Nicholas leaped to his saddle and left the field with the woman from the air in his arms.
What was he to do with her, he thought as he rode home to his fortress in Scarborough. The fighting was over for now. His side had won. He wasn’t surprised. The White forces were trained well—by him. He didn’t celebrate with them though.
The woman had nothing to do with his sober demeanor. He wasn’t on this earth to make friends. He hadn’t been for many years. He was here to keep the House of York firmly seated on the throne. But it wasn’t. Not since King Edward died and his brother, Richard ruled. For nearly two years, Nicholas fought for a man he hated and a house he loved.
He looked down at the woman beginning to stir in his arms. Where had she come from? What were the strange clothes she was wearing? What kind of magic was at work
