Knight's Legacy (3 page)

“She loved you. Very much. As the song said, ‘a bushel and a peck, and …' “

Cat stepped back and instinctively took a defensive stance as she finished the song for him in a frightened whisper.

“ ‘… a hug around the neck.' Oh God! You can't know that! How do you know that? Wait!”

“Trust your heart, Catherine.” Her feet were at once unable to move. This was no coincidence.

Her thoughts raced to her childhood. Her mother had died when Cat was twelve years old. Barbara Terril had tucked her in every night and performed the little ritual the old man had described. She remembered the softness of her mother's touch when she pushed her hair behind her ears, kissed both cheeks and sang the little song. It was their own private time. Cat was not at all sure even her father knew of it. As a teenager, there were many times she had heard her friends complain about their mother's interference, and Cat found it ironic that she longed for the same, for just one more day with her mother; her sense of humor, warmth, and wisdom.

Merlin.
Mama, how did he know?
Was he the man of magic and legend? Time traveler? It was too outrageous to believe.

Her skin was clammy and cold, and she stood still for a long while. The mist was now sweeping around her boots, and she turned to watch the narrow stairs from which it came. She had been frightened, but now felt a profound curiosity. It settled over her shoulders like a warm blanket.

As if hearing her own voice would bring her back to reality, she spoke aloud. “Face it, girl. You're too inquisitive to retreat.”

It was colder, and the air was musty when she followed the steps down to a long passageway. The mist came from the left, and her steps slowed while she pondered the wisdom of her actions. Nervously, she ran a hand through her hair and continued on to another staircase. This one went straight down, the narrow steps banked by the castle walls.

“This is a nightmare of claustrophobia,” she said as she sheathed her sword in the scabbard at her waist. She put her hands on either side of the walls and made her way gingerly down the ascent. When she saw the door, Cat gasped out loud at the beauty of it.

It was very low, suitable for a child's playhouse. The door was wooden, ornately carved, and polished to a brilliant shine. The mist flowed from beneath it. Green ivy framed the edges, and a heavy black iron gate covered the door. One padlock hung on the iron chain wrapped around the gate. The doorknob was golden with two key slots, one above the other. In the very center of the wrought iron gate was a black velvet pouch tied to the iron by its drawstring.

Cat crouched down before the door for several minutes, and touched the mist that flowed like water from under it. It circled and wafted around her hands when she untied the pouch.

Her fingers trembled as she opened the soft velvet bag to find three skeleton keys. Each key was unique and delicately carved. Curiosity tugged at her. What was behind the door?

Was it magic? The source intrigued her, but she wasn't afraid.

She studied the keys. One was longer than the other two. The two smaller keys appeared to be identical in shape and size.

Cat took the larger key and worked it inside the old padlock that held the chain to the gate. It opened easily. The chain was small, but heavy, as she unwound it from the iron gate and pulled it open.

Cat took a deep, shuddering breath and examined the doorknob.

“Trust your heart,” she spoke to herself aloud.

There were two keyholes, one above the other. She tried one key and turned it, then the other. She turned the knob only to find it still locked. Cat began to get frustrated as she worked to open the door. She turned the bottom key first. Nothing. She turned them slowly in the opposite direction. Nothing. Finally she removed both keys, inserted them simultaneously, and turned them one at a time. She turned the knob and pulled.

The door came open, and she was pulled violently through the doorway in a powerful vacuum of cold air, rendered as helpless as a rag doll. The centrifugal force pinned her arms tightly to her body. The lavender mist enveloped her in a whirling vortex.

All she could do was scream.

For they sleep not, except they have done mischief …for they eat the bread of wickedness, and drink the wine of violence.

~Proverbs 4:16-17

A
ngus heard the lass screaming before he saw her. He and Graham bounded up from their plaids and grabbed their swords.

The sound of the waterfall muffled her cries before she slipped beneath the surface of the water. Angus handed his weapon to Graham and plunged into the cold lake. He swam to her side, grasped her leather tunic, and pulled her head up to the surface. She had swallowed a great deal of water, and coughed to force it from her lungs. The lass was doing her best to drown.

Angus reached around her waist and felt the sword in the leather scabbard. She didn't have the breath to fight him when he dragged her to the bank. He took the sword and deposited her face down in the grass. She was dressed as a lad, but a mane of long auburn hair had come loose from its braid and lay in a tangle down her back. She coughed up more water.

He unsheathed the sword and held it up to Graham.

“Would ye look at this? 'Tis light enough to be a child's toy.”

“A pretty toy at that. Think ye she means to wield it?”

Angus shrugged. “ 'Tis so blunt it will do little damage.”

Cat was on her hands and knees. “Of course it is, it's a stage combat weapon. A choreographed fight isn't meant to cause injury.”

They stared at her in confusion, then Angus spoke. “And what is a korrea fight, lady?”

“This is not funny. I don't care who's in on the joke. Give it back. The sword is mine, you idiot,” Cat complained.

She turned over and faced them. Angus looked into a visage so fair that, were it not for her bedraggled state, he would think her a vision, an elfin beauty. Her eyes were the color of spring grass in the Highlands. Her eyelashes were black, long, and spiky wet. Her skin was creamy and her cheeks pink from her efforts to save herself from the deep water.

“Who are ye, lass?” His voice was soft, and his thoughts turned lustful as he gazed down at her curves beneath the tunic. The belt at her waist defined its smallness. Her body was slender; her hips slim.

“Who are you? You two don't work for the production company.” She looked around, fear and confusion in her eyes.

“Befuddled, are ye? Ye saucy wench! Hit your head on a rock? Ye be daft. Ungrateful too! Angus, ye should have let her drown,” Graham grumbled.

“No. She's too beautiful for that fate. Better she warm my bed.”

“In your dreams, cowboy! If you don't work for Carter Welles, then you must be part of the Castle tour. Either way, I am not amused.”

They both stared at her as if she had two heads. The older man enjoyed a hearty belly laugh.

“Now, ye are part boy, part cow!”

She stood up and reached for her sword. He wouldn't give it to her, but laid a heavy hand on the back of her neck.

“Your weapon belongs to me, wench, as do you.”

It was the arrogant way he said it. Cat's temper got the better of her, and she caught him by surprise with a roundhouse kick. Her foot made brief contact with his groin in a sharp jab. Angus buckled to his knees from the unexpected attack, and let out a roar of anger.

Graham stepped up when Cat moved to take her sword. He grasped her arm and backhanded her across the face. The blow would have knocked her to the ground had he not been holding her arm.

“No! Dinnae beat her!” Angus spoke the words in a strangled gasp. It was difficult to speak through the pain. “If she pays, it will be at my hand!”

The girl stared up at Graham as if suddenly terrified. She gingerly touched the blood at the corner of her mouth where her teeth had cut her cheek.

“Dear God, where am I? You would not have done that unless …”

“She's mine!” Angus said.

Cat scrambled to run from them, but Graham held her. He was kicked so much as they struggled, he roared his complaint to Angus.

“Ye want me to keep this demon from leavin', ye best help me. Or there will be a lot more damage to the body ye be lustin' after! “

Angus recovered enough to help Graham tie the girl, using leather strips to bind her wrists behind her back. Angus grabbed a handful of the auburn hair and pressed his knee into the small of her back. He pulled her head back until she winced.

“Ye fight me any more, lass, and I'll beat ye black myself. Ye be a scrapper, I'll say that.”

She was having a hard time breathing as he pushed his weight down on her back.

“Give her another lick or two, Angus. She has earned it. She come near to puttin' an end to your wenching for all time.” Graham let out a lusty laugh.

“Cease your jesting, old goat! I have a plan. If it's to be, she's not to be beaten! We must not mark her if she is to be given to the Englishmon as a wife. She can be Brianna!”

Graham narrowed his eyes. He glanced down at the lass, now still and subdued as Angus sat astride her. He looked back at Angus and shook his head in disbelief.

“Nay … 'Tis foolish. It willnae do.”

“You think naught? She be as redheaded as Brianna. She's close to the same size. If we be crafty enough Montwain will never know she is not Brianna until they be wed, and we be gone! Even the King hasnae seen Brianna since she was a wee lass.”

“And if the lass screams her plight to Montwain?”

“We don't give her the chance! She willnae be alone with him until they be wed!”

Angus stood up in a fluid motion and pulled Cat's hair, wrapping it around his meaty wrist. She cried out when she looked at him, wincing in pain when he forced her to stand. He tugged her hair to yank her to him, and placed his lips a hair's breadth from her ear.

“You willnae say a word to Montwain, lass,” he warned. “If I say ye be Princess Joan, sister of King Henry of England, ye be it! Or I'll slit your throat here and now. Do ye ken?”

Angus could see he frightened her. It was his intention. She did not answer. Her eyes narrowed in anger, but she looked away from him and nodded.

Angus enjoyed the scent and the softness of the lass, and kept her before him on his mount during the ride back to the castle. She was weak and confused, did not speak, but he didn't miss senseless chatter from a wench who could be mad. He wanted her, but he fought down the desire. She was his captive, and she would marry Montwain.

Cat caught sight of the first clump of trees that looked familiar, and her heart pounded with excitement. The landscape was the same as she remembered around the castle used by Carter's crew.

“Merlin did it!” she whispered in awe.

She glanced around and twisted in the saddle, trying desperately to make sense of it.

“Keep still,” Angus said. He tightened his hold around her waist.

Cat held back her anger. There were a number of things she could do to defend herself, but not while they were on a horse. Reluctantly, she held her tongue. Although it was not in Cat's nature to bide her time and wait, it wasn't long until they reached their destination.

Cat stared at the castle and felt a profound sense of relief. It was the same stone fortress, but none of the beauty that had been restored in her time was evident. They dismounted swiftly, and Angus took her arm somewhat roughly. She was dragged to a passageway that led to the great hall.

There were none of the rich paintings and tapestries that had hung on the sloping walls of the castle the film crew used. Cat felt a thrill of excitement. What would it be like to live in another time? Would she be able to return to her own time? She remembered only the cold vortex of air before she fell into the water. If it were still a portal of time travel, how would she find it again?

The outer walls of the castle had only high slit windows suitable for resisting attack. Angus took her up a flight of steps to a tower room, and Cat noticed the rest of the castle was neglected, somewhat bare.

But the room where the Laird received her was luxurious, crowded with furniture and with soft skins of fur on the floor. There were heavy leather pieces thrown back from the windows to let in the light.

Cat took an instant dislike to Calum Mackay. He was a huge man with thick, muddy gray hair and beard. The first time she looked into his eyes she felt a sense of evil, as if a rat had crawled down her spinal chord. He and his son wore kilts with the same colors of blue and green plaid. His chest was covered with more of the same.

It didn't take Angus long to inform his father of his plot.

“Marry Montwain!”

The older man looked her over, glancing disdainfully at her clothes.

“Father, it be the only way. Look at her! She could stir any mon's blood! I want her for my own, do ye not agree?”

Calum brought his hand up in a dismissive, silencing gesture. He measured Cat up and down with his gaze as if she were for sale and the price was too high.