Powerful Magic (10 page)

          
"When you swore your oath of allegiance to me."

          
Ok, so maybe
vassal
had been the wrong word.
 
She searched her brain, trying to remember what the correct term could be.
 
"Sorry.
 
I was only trying to help."
 

          
At his brusque nod, she gave a sigh of relief, watching as he went to where he'd heaped his belongings.
 
After a moment, he pulled out a long leather scabbard, carrying it almost lovingly to the fire.
 
Even she, as ignorant of medieval things as she was, recognized it for a sword.

          
Slowly, he withdrew it, the metal blade sparkling in the cracking firelight.
 
Megan couldn't help it - she stared.
 

          
When he noticed her, he held it up so that the point faced the roof of the cave.
 
It looked wickedly sharp, yet oddly beautiful.
 
She wondered if Kenric would take offense were she to touch it.

          
"Yes, it is mine."
 
His deep voice seemed to echo in the small cave, reverberating with a fierce pride and what she thought might be sorrow.
 

          
"It's magnificent."

          
He seemed to accept her words as due homage.
 
Lowering the blade, he began to polish it with a soft cloth, his large hands moving lovingly over the sharp steel.
 
"It belonged to my father, and his father before him.
 
It was to have been my older brother's, had he lived."

          
Megan felt a twinge, wondering what it would feel like if those capable, long fingered hands touched her skin that way.

          
"Does it have a name?"
 
She was hesitant to ask, but felt relatively certain that she remembered this much from books.
 
Or maybe only Kings and Princes named their swords.

          
Kenric did not seem to find her question ridiculous however.
 
Sheathing the sword, he carried it back to its place against the wall before answering.
 

          
"It does."
 
Turning, he considered her, his eyes molten with reflected firelight, yet dark with his own memories.
 
He looked like some Pagan warrior, capable of slaying dragons and carrying distressed maidens off to safety.
 
Capable too, of breaking that same maiden's heart.
 

          
She would do well to remember that, even if this was only a dream.

          
"I cannot tell you the name."
 
He gave a huge sigh, coming back to the fire and taking a seat alongside of her.
 
"For you to know the name gives you power over it.
 
I keep forgetting you have injured your head, or you would know this.
 
I will not tell you the name, but it means thunder."

          
Thunder.

          
Now it was she who felt restless, she who felt compelled to move from the warmth of the fire and pace the confines of the cave.
 
Kenric sat too close, and though he could not know it, the temptation to touch him ran hot in her blood.

          
"The name suits you,"
 
she ventured.

          
He frowned, obviously not liking the comparison.

          
"And the sword, of course."
 
She tacked on hastily, at his grimace.

          
There was a wry twist to his sensual mouth.
 
"Though I am but a bastard, great care was taken in naming me."

          
A bastard.
 
In times like these that title carried so much more painful baggage than it did in her time.

          
Times like these
.
 
Did she really believe that?
 
Unless she was the recipient of some bizarre, mind-altering drug, she had no choice.
 

          
"One more thing,"
 
he said casually, flexing his long-fingered, calloused hands before him, "I am done with fighting.
 
I would not like to kill again, even for you."

          
Kill
?
 
Conscious that her mouth had fallen open, Megan closed it.
 
Great.
 
One thing she did remember from her admittedly scattered reading about medieval times was that the men, both bandits and knights alike, were bloodthirsty.
 
And she was stuck with a man who wouldn't defend her.
 
Or, she amended, wouldn't kill for her.

          
Hey, this was good.
 
Really.
 
This was a sign of maturity, of civilization.
 
Summoning a smile, she nodded at the big man who watched her silently, waiting.

          
"That's okay with me."
 
On impulse, she grabbed one of his outstretched hands and squeezed it, noticing how different the hard, calloused fingers were from Roger's smooth, manicured hand.
 
"I wouldn't kill for you either."

          
Startled, he yanked his hand away.
 
Fire flared in his eyes, the heat quite different from that of the flames that

warmed them. "Do you mock me?"
 

          
So, the male ego had not changed at all in nine hundred years.
 

          
"Of course not."
 
She soothed, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. "I made a joke, er a jest."

          
He seemed to accept this, stalking once again to his saddle bag and withdrawing their dinner.

          
They broke bread, again partaking of the odd tasting, dried meat. He had some wine, sour and sweet at the same time, the taste of it metallic on her tongue.
 
Drinking it helped ease some of her nervousness at the approaching night.
 
Would he hold her again?
 

          
She shivered. Though he'd behaved like a gentleman, she knew her own wayward thoughts had been less than ladylike.
 
The sooner she could get away from him, the better.
 
But for now she needed him to help her search.
 
Not for Roger, as he thought, but for the gateway to her time.
 
She had to get home, back to the twentieth century where she belonged.
 

CHAPTER FOUR

          
Watching her, Kenric wondered if he'd imagined the look of contempt in her beautiful eyes.
 
If she despised him, he could not blame her.
 
All women had a right to expect a man that would defend them.
 

          
Not that he wouldn't, he simply did not plan to kill again if he could help it.
 
And, as long as he was the only one who knew she was a woman, he should not have to.
 
No one ever bothered lowly squires.
 
As a boy she was safe.
 
Now, if only he could make his body forget the truth of it.

          
Thoughts of the coming night had his blood pounding heavy and slow.
 
He wondered if he should hold her again, wondered if she would want him to, wondered if he dared.
 

          
When she came back inside, shivering from the cold, all caution left him.
 
Holding out his arms, he waited until she was nestled snugly against him before lying back on the saddle-blanket.
 
Now he had but to prove that his mind could control his body.

          
She sighed, shifting once, then relaxed.
 
The fire burned low, the dim orange glow making nameless shadows dance on the cave walls.
 

          
Gradually, her shivering stopped as their bodies generated heat.
 
He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the floral, feminine scent of her.
 
A strand of her hair tickled his nostril; he brought his hand up to push it away.
 
Somehow he found himself caressing the silky smoothness of her boyishly short hair.
 

          
Her breathing caught.
 
Kenric found himself straining to hear her take another breath.
 
When she did, it was a harsh one, low and very nearly a moan.
 
His body responded instantly, and he cursed under his breath.
 

          
Still, he did not move his hand.
 

          
With another half sigh, she relaxed into his massage.
 
Eyes closed, she arched against him, a sleepy kitten under his fingers.
 
The thin blanket shifted, his gaze went to her breasts and his breath caught in his throat.
 
Her nipples were large, hard like pebbles, inviting the touch of his hand or his mouth.
 
If she moved again, she would know how she affected him.

          
He wanted her beyond all reason.

          
Yet she was the intended bride of this Roger, the man who would, for her safe return, gift him with his heart's desire.
 

          
Land.
 
He must remember that Roger would not take kindly to Kenric deflowering his woman.

          
He forced himself to think of the land, always the land.
 
There would be other women.
 
There would not be another chance like this.

          
Reluctant, his body straining against the front of his

braes, Kenric deposited her gently on the blanket and pushed himself to his feet.
 
He kept himself turned away from her, not wanting her to see his arousal.

          
"Kenric?"
 
Her voice sounded low, husky and sensual.
 
"Where are you going?"

          
Though he knew he shouldn't, he could not keep from looking back over his shoulder at her.
 
The firelight flickered over her tousled hair.
 
She had the look of a woman badly in need of a man.
 

          
In disbelief, Kenric felt himself grow harder.
 
Shaking his head, he headed out the small cave opening into the blowing snow and icy air.
 

          
Later, much later, cold and disgruntled, he returned to find her asleep.
 
Disdaining the warmth of the shared blanket, he picked a spot on the opposite side of the fire.

          
Though he tried, sleep eluded him that night.
 
The ground felt uneven and rocky, the smallest stone irritating his skin.
 
Though he'd slept on this same ground a hundred times, though he'd bedded down in worse places, he could not get comfortable.
 
Infuriating for a man, dangerous for a warrior.
 
And he knew it was all because of this irrational, burning desire for a woman he could not have.

          
He had his gear packed and the war horse loaded before she woke.

          
"Morning."
 
She muttered, stumbling outside with her eyes half closed and the ridiculously thin blanket wrapped around her instead of his warm cloak.
 
He wanted to chide her, but thought it more prudent to hold his silence.
 
If he kept things on a strictly impersonal level, it would be better off for both of them.