Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (2 page)

The laird’s wife drew herself up. “She curses us. Did ye hear?”

“Burn her,” the priest intoned. “Before she can do more damage. And burn her spawn, as well.”

“Sinclair!
Do something.”

The laird stepped forward. “Nae the boy.”

“He has her eyes,” the priest intoned.

“I say nay. Are not little children innocent before God?”

With cold fury in his eyes, the priest bowed his head. “As you wish, Laird. But I hope you will not live to regret your interference. But I insist the boy watch. As a warning against following in his mother’s destructive path.”

Ian’s mother was wrestled and tied to the beam in the center of the village, already black from previous burnings. “I wish him taken to my family, do you hear?” One of the priest’s men thrust a torch into the wood and straw.

Fire licked hungrily toward his mother.

Ian bucked against the guards as blooms of smoked filled the air.
“Noooo! Nooooo! Stop!”

He met his mother’s eyes, and she gazed upon him for a long moment, before smoke started to obscure his view.
“I love you, Ian. Never forget it.
Now close your eyes, my love. Look away.” And then the fire reached for her and she screamed.

Ian, eyes and mouth wide, shrieked until he was hoarse, his vision blocked by tears and smoke as the minutes and horror dragged on. He clenched his eyes tight when he smelled her, burnt and quiet now, surely dead, gone from him forever. He collapsed, hanging limp and exhausted in the guard’s grasp.

“You may take him from here,” the priest said.

Ian, his body shaking, studied the man responsible for his mother’s murder. He noted the clean clothes, the jewels, and the man’s smug expression. Ian had truly thought him God’s messenger when he’d first seen him, his finery so bright and impressive.

But with his figure silhouetted against the darkening sky, the fire’s light dancing across his face, playing over the scratches his mother had marked upon his cheek the night before, how could his kinsmen not see the devil himself, masquerading as a man of God?

Brodrick collected Ian again, carried him like a babe, his face pressed to big man’s neck as Ian lay limp and exhausted, looking over his shoulder. As they shuffled away, Ian, eyes burning hotly, watched the devil climb down from the wagon and stride away. When Ian was older and stronger, he vowed he’d send the demon back to his fiery home and rid this world of evil.

He swore it on his mother’s body.

~~~

New York, Present Day:

Using her key, Samantha Ryan let herself inside the brownstone house, ditched her coat on the sofa, and took her satchel into Grandfather’s room. He sat in bed, a blanket drawn up to his stomach, watching a game show, of all things—not his usual style. “Grandpa?”

He started. “Eh? Oh, hello, Sammi.”

She rapped knuckles on the door frame. “Knock-knock.”

“Who’s there?” he responded on cue.

“Justin.”

He smiled. “Justin who?”

“Just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”

As always, he chuckled at the old joke as he reached for the remote and turned off the TV. “What are you doing here on a Friday afternoon?”

She bit her lip as she studied him. He looked more frail and more resigned than when she’d seen him two days before. His cancer was terminal, he knew it, and was just waiting to die. She sat on the chair beside the bed. “How is everything going?”

He made a dismissive noise. “What happened to your hair?”

Samantha pulled her ponytail forward to look at the bright, unnaturally red locks for a moment before tossing her hair behind her back again. “My boss hired a guy to pretty me up for my upcoming speech. It’s tonight, actually.”

“So he turned you into a cartoon character?”

Samantha laughed. “I forget about it until I look in the mirror. They also strongly suggested I take a course on
How to Win Friends and Influence People.
Apparently I’m a little too forthright when talking to donors, and interviewing for grants. Evidently I don’t know how to charm. Too much like my Grandpa, I guess.”

He grinned, showing slightly yellowed, but strong teeth. “Learn anything useful you’d care to share?”

She shrugged. “How to play the game a little better, I guess.”

Grandfather’s brows furrowed and he looked at her darkly. “Those mealy-mouths at the university wouldn’t be doing this if you were a man. When you have tenure, you won’t have to put up with that sort of thing. In fact, you should already have tenure.”

Samantha shrugged. “In the interim, I’ll toe the line. It’s the best archeology university in the country and they pretty much let me do what I want most of the time. I guess if they want me to look more presentable, I’ll do it. Anyway, I’m only twenty-eight. Tenure will come.”

“Hmmft. More presentable, is it?” He eyed her hair and snorted. “Don’t fool yourself. They’re using your age as an excuse. Academia is big business. Always has been. And they only let you do what you want because you get results. Finding the Norwich Trove, the Cave of Bavaria, your work with the bog bodies, and Jamestown. And you debunked the Halliburton Hoax. They’re playing with you, my girl. And if they don’t give you tenure soon they’re going to risk losing you to a university that will appreciate you more.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I like New York. It’s home. Where else am I going to go? Besides, as I said, I’m only twenty-eight.”

“But you’ve been working in the field since you were nine.”

She grinned at him. “Thanks to you.”

He raised a brow. “Should I regret dragging you all over the world?”

“Why would you? I don’t, and you know it. You gave me the best and most interesting life a girl could ever have.” Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and she turned her head away.

He breathed in as he studied her for a moment. “If your parents hadn’t died, things would have been different for you.”

“I’d only be further behind in my career. I was born to do this, same as you.”

A slight smile tugged at his lips and he nodded.

She glanced around the room, taking in the tray of uneaten food, the remote controls on the quilt, and the unusual tidiness. Even his Maori masks were hung and well dusted. “How’s it going here at home?”

“The nurse is an idiot. The man can’t play a decent game of chess.”

“No?”

“You played a better game at twelve.” He studied her expression. “What is it? You look—”

She let out the grin she’d been holding back. “Happy? Excited? Ecstatic?”

“Have you met a boy, then?” he teased.

“You could say that.”

“About time, isn’t it?” he said, but he studied her, waiting.

She laughed and the sound, genuine and excited, finally got a reluctant smile out of him.

“So who is he?”

“Ian MacGregor.”

Grandpa snorted. “Himself, is it then?” he said in a fake Scottish accent. “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”

She grinned and leaned forward in her chair as she tried to figure out the best way to tell him.

He waited, his eyes gleaming. “What is it, girl?”

She took a breath. “Grandfather.” She paused as she anticipated his reaction, as her own excitement threatened to overwhelm her. “I’ve found it.”

“Found what, exactly?” he said the words carefully, his gaze watchful.

“The crown. The Crown of Scotland. At least I think I did.”

He sat up straighter. “Say again?”

Meeting his gaze, she grinned. He’d always been fascinated by the crown, by what could have happened to it, and they’d spent many a night over a game of chess, debating where it could have gone.
Who had taken it? Where had it ended up? Did it even exist anymore, or had it been melted and sold piece by piece long ago?
In a swift motion she rubbed her hands together. “Historians used to claim Ian MacGregor had it, right?”

Grandfather’s eyes shone bright with interest. “Correct. He was originally a likely candidate. The crown disappeared when he left the king and took over Inverdeem as laird. A favor the king granted as his blood-right even though MacGregor was illegitimate. But his dying always looked suspicious, and eventually it was believed the king may have had a hand in it.” Grandfather shrugged. “So historians started thinking, the king giveth and the king taketh away.”

Samantha took a folder from her satchel and removed her notes and some photos. “Remember the monument in the middle of the village outside Inverdeem Castle?”

“The big rock? Of course. What about it?”

Samantha turned the photos around and showed him first the monument, then a close up of the small birds carved into the front; some barely visible, some likely faded away completely. Finally she handed him the enlarged photo of the side of the monument. “These three marks aren’t more birds, Grandpa, they’re claws.” She drew her finger to fill in the faded areas. “And the claws are set off by themselves, on the side of the monument, near the base. Do you see it?”

He turned on his reading lamp, reached for his glasses, and took the enlarged photo. He studied it for a long moment, then reached for the others and examined them closely before looking at the claws again. Finally, he looked up. “A lion’s paw? The king’s emblem?”

Suddenly unsure, she rushed into speech, telling him things he already knew, but needing to say them out loud, to state her case. “As you said, Ian MacGregor had originally been high on everyone’s list of suspects for who took the crown. He died only a few months after becoming laird. Just long enough for him to hide the crown, but not really long enough to have sold it off. Not in that time period. There are writings that tell of the king’s men doing a thorough search of the castle, going so far as to break down walls. At the time, no one knew why. It wasn’t until later historians put together the thought that the crown disappeared after Ian MacGregor’s death and maybe he’d stolen it and been punished by the king. But when explorations didn’t recover it, in any century, everyone gave up the theory. The fact that he was half-English with strong ties to England sort of nixed the idea for most. But, Grandpa, I think it’s still there.”

“Because?”

“I got to thinking there are such contradictory stories about MacGregor. He’d been a bodyguard for the king and was granted land, or, the king didn’t trust him and killed him and tore his castle apart. He was known to be harsh but fair, but by other accounts sly and sneaky. He may or may not have been a spy for the English. So which is it? His tournament wins suggest he was a great fighter. By some accounts he was a man’s man, big in stature, a bodyguard. And the king did grant him his family lands. So I thought, what if the king had taken a liking to him? Had trusted him?”

He looked at the picture, tilting his glasses so he could see better, and smiled slightly. “Oh, you tricky, tricky Scot.” He looked up. “It would be just like him to hide the thing in plain sight.” He huffed out a laugh. “How long have you worked on this?”

“Two years, on and off. I started with the castle and the grounds, and eliminated hiding places one by one. I eventually ended up in the village.” It hadn’t been hard. She’d never admit it to her grandfather—he already teased her enough about it—but digging into the man’s life had become both a pleasure and a distraction.

As contradictory as the accounts of his character were, everyone pretty much agreed the man was a head taller than most, with thick dark hair that fell down his back, braided more often than not. It was rumored his face was so pretty he wore a beard to hide his features from the ladies at court. An extremely good fighter, by all accounts he was a hard man to best. Sneaky and sly had been applied to his character, and while he’d been both those things, he’d been intelligent. Not the type to steal from the hand that fed him.

Watching her grandfather read her notes, she sat back, and waited for his verdict. He read for ten more minutes, and then slowly took off his glasses. “When do you leave for Scotland? Why aren’t you already on an airplane?”

She laughed, hugged him, and kissed his cheek. “I leave tomorrow. We have that fundraiser at the university tonight. I have a fancy black dress and everything. I have to show up to
win friends and influence people.
If I don’t, I’m fired. My boss was clear on that.”

He waved the folder in the air. “They can’t fire you. You dig up the crown and they wouldn’t dare. They’ll be kissing your feet for the prestige, grants, and donations it’ll bring to the university. Everyone likes to back a winner.”

“If I dig up the crown.”

Eyes as sharp as ever—and
interested,
thank goodness—he studied her face, and then nodded slowly. “You’re right. Nothing is ever certain. 750 years is a long time. If it really was there, it could be long gone, melted down and turned into anything.”

“I’ve asked for time off starting tomorrow. I have so much leave accrued they didn’t dare turn me down. I’m actually going tonight, right after the fundraiser.”

Visibly tired, Grandpa leaned back against the pillows again. “Oh, Digger, how I envy you.”

Samantha smiled at the old nickname, given to her when she’d accompanied him on her first dig to Asia Minor at the age of nine and promptly gotten to work.

He smiled. “I’m proud of you, you know?”

Her chest tightened. “I know.”

“Try and meet someone, will you? I don’t want you to be alone after I’m gone. What happened to that nice young man you were seeing?”

“It didn’t work out.” It never did. She just wasn’t the sort of girl that guys went for. Too straightforward, too obsessed with her work, too out of touch with modern culture, she supposed.

“Don’t you worry. You’ll find someone. But try and find someone living, eh?” He lifted her notes. “This attachment you have to Ian MacGregor won’t get you a husband and children.”

She laughed, and felt her face warming. “He’s a lot more interesting than most of the guys I’ve dated.”

“Wily is the word I’d use. But don’t you worry. You’ll find someone in the here and now. You’re too beautiful and hardworking not to.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Too bad you’re the only one who sees me that way.”