Her huge eyes rounded. “A Red? No. Do you see a red rose badge on me anywhere?”
He raked his gaze over her and shook his head, relieved that she wasn’t his enemy.
“Do you still insist that you have come back in time from the future?” He was hoping she’d had a change of thought.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked looking up at him on his horse. “It’s the truth.”
Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. Somehow, they appeared even bluer.
“A truth,” he countered stiffly, “that could see you tied to a stake.”
She gasped and reached for his horse’s bridle. “Burned?”
“Where did you come from?” he asked. Was she a witch? Would she tell him if she was?
“I…fell and hit my head. I don’t remember where I come from.”
It was what he wanted her to say. But hearing her say it and seeing the tears it produced only trumpeted the fact that she was lying and afraid. Afraid of him. Good. She should be. He wasn’t here to coddle anyone. He would see to it that she was taken care of, but that was as far as he would go.
“Come, I will take you home and see that you are cared for.”
She went to him this time and he hoisted her up and set her down behind him. She straddled his horse and wrapped her arms around his waist.
She didn’t speak to him again, but about a half of a mile in, he heard her weeping and he felt his léine growing damp.
He wasn’t used to comforting women at such close proximity. What does one say to a woman who was not right in the head? A woman who believed she lost her family and friends? He covered her hands resting on his belly and with one hand he patted hers. Soon, he would be home and he could hand her over to Elia.
Soon, he wouldn’t have to concern himself with her anymore.
Chapter Three
Kes didn’t care if her cheek was pressed to this man’s back, or if she soaked his shirt. She was heartsick and petrified. She was here—in the middle ages. In the middle of a war, or to be more specific, the Wars of the Roses. She wept harder.
The Wars of the Roses were a series of wars for the English, fought between two rival branches of the royal House of Plantagenet. The House of—her heart skipped making her feel dizzy—Lancaster, and the House of York.
Not only was she here, but she’d landed on the enemy side, right in the middle of the action. She trembled remembering the dying men and this savage in front of her. If she hadn’t been so busy screaming, and if he hadn’t been killing men left and right, she might have thought him kind of beautiful to watch.
How was she going to get back? She would never make it here. Loving history was entirely different than living it.
Still, there were little things to be thankful for, such as this guy saving her life—twice. His name was well known if the leader of the six was any proof. He couldn’t get his men away quickly enough. Nicholas de Marre. She didn’t remember reading anything about him. But she knew what he meant when he spoke about the Reds and the Whites. Some historians disagreed about when the phrases were termed. But here was a white rose on the knight’s shield.
She nearly leaped from her skin when the man’s hand came to rest on hers. He was offering her comfort. She took it.
She would have given anything to speak to one of her friends. Kim would tell her to go with it, relax and enjoy the adventure. Lilith would tell her to rest and trust God. Jack would tell her to fight, and Constantine would tell her to seduce and sleep with the knight and secure a place for herself.
Maybe they were all right when added up together.
Would she ever see them again? What would her father do when they found out she’d disappeared? He’d lost her mother fifteen years ago and now her. Would he give up, be alone for the rest of his life? Maybe the police would talk to Mr. Green and someone could figure out how to get her home.
Until then…oh, until then, what would she do? She wasn’t a survivalist. If she didn’t stick to Sir Nicholas, she’d be dead in a week. A little part of her felt as if she were losing her mind for calling him who he claimed to be and liking how it sounded in her head.
Sir Nicholas de Marre, Earl of Scarborough, from fourteen hundred and eighty-five.
How could all this be possible?
She opened her eyes and watched trees and bramble, hills and valleys pass. He was taking her to Scarborough. And then what? She had to make him believe her. Or did she? He’d practically called her a witch! They burned witches in the middle ages.
Was she supposed to forget her life? Never!
She sniffled and caught a whiff of pine and sea air. It was nice, refreshing. But there was another scent coming from him that drew her. She turned her nose into his shirt and her nostrils filled with the scent of woodsmoke and the faint undercurrent of sweat. No cologne or artificial aromas. Just the smell of a man. Pure, unadulterated pheromones.
It almost made her forget the painful ache in her inner thighs from riding.
He must have felt her breathing him in.
“What did you say your name was, Miss?” he asked crisply.
“Kestrel.” She knew she had almost said Lancaster earlier. He may have picked up on it. She quickly searched her brain for a Yorkshire name. “Locksley.”
“Well, Miss Locksley, you must stop all this weeping.”
“I can’t promise anything,” she told him woodenly. “I’m mourning my life. Try a little compassion.”
“I’m a warrior, Miss. Compassion will get me killed.”
“On the battlefield, yes. But this isn’t a battlefield.”
Why was she arguing with him? Because she wanted an understanding
