Trust Me on This (17 page)

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ENCHANTMENT

by Teresa Medeiros

THE TIME

by Annette Reynolds

From the bestselling author of
Breath of Magic
and
Shadows and Lace
comes a beguiling new time-travel love story in the hilarious, magical voice that has made

Teresa Medeiros one of the nation's most beloved romance writers.

Heiress Tabitha Lennox considered her paranormal talents a curse, so she dedicated her life to the cold, rational world of science. Until the day she examined the mysterious amulet her mother left her and found herself catapulted seven centuries into the past
—
directly into the path of a chain-mailed warrior… Sir Colin of Ravenshaw had returned from the Crusades to find his enemy poised to overrun the land where his family had ruled for generations. The last thing he expected was to narrowly avoid trampling a damsel with odd garb and even odder manners. But it is her strange talent that will create trouble beyond Colin's wildest imaginings. For everyone knows that a witch must be burned
—
and Colin's heart is already aflame
…

He thought the creature was female, but he couldn't be sure. Any hint of its sex was buried beneath a shape-less tunic and a pair of loose leggings. It blinked up at him, its gray eyes startlingly large in its pallid face.

"Who the hell are you?" he growled. "Did that murdering bastard send you to ambush me?"

It lifted its cupped hands a few inches off the ground. "Do I look like someone sent to ambush you?"

The thing had a point. It wore no armor and carried no weapon that he could see, unless you counted those beseeching gray eyes. Definitely female, he decided with a grunt of mingled relief and pain. He might have been too long without a woman, but he'd yet to be swayed by any of the pretty young lads a few of his more jaded comrades favored.

He steadied his grip on the sword, hoping the woman hadn't seen it waver. His chest heaved with exhaustion and he was forced to shake the sweat from his eyes before stealing a desperate glance over his shoulder.

The forest betrayed no sign of pursuit, freeing him to return his attention to his trembling captive. "Have you no answer for my question? Who the hell are you?"

To his surprise, the surly demand ignited a spark of spirit in the wench's eyes. "Wait just a minute! Maybe the question should be, Who the hell are jyow?" Her eyes narrowed in a suspicious glare. "Don't I know you?" She began to mutter beneath her breath as she studied his face, making him wonder if he hadn't snared a lunatic. "Trim the hair. Give him a shave and a bath. Sprite him with Brut and slip him into an off-the-rack suit. Aha!" she crowed. "You're George, aren't you? George… George… ?" She snapped her fingers. "George Rug-gles from Accounting!" She slanted him a glance that was almost coy. "Fess up now, Georgie boy. Did Daddy offer you a raise to play knight in shining armor to my damsel in distress?"

His jaw went slack with shock as she swatted his sword aside and scrambled to her feet, brushing the grass from her shapely rump with both hands. "You can confide in me, you know. I promise it won't affect your Yearly Performance Evaluation."

She was taller than he had expected, taller than any woman of his acquaintance. But far more disconcerting than her height was her brash attitude. Since he'd been old enough to wield a sword, he'd never met anyone, man or woman, who wasn't afraid of him.

The sun was beating down on his head like an anvil. He clenched his teeth against a fresh wave of pain. "Ifou may call me George if it pleases you, my lady, but 'tis
not
my name."

She paced around him, making the horse prance and shy away from her. "Should I call you Prince then? Or will Mr. Charming do? And what would you like to call me? Guenevere perhaps?" She touched a hand to her rumpled hair and batted her sandy eyelashes at him. "Or would you prefer Rapunzel?"

His ears burned beneath her incomprehensible taunts. He could think of several names he'd like to call her, none of them flattering. A small black cat appeared out of nowhere to scamper at her heels, forcing him to rein his stallion in tighter or risk trampling them both. Each nervous shuffle of the horse's hooves jarred his aching bones.

She eyed his cracked leather gauntlets and tarnished chain mail with blatant derision. "So where's your shining armor, Lancelot? Is it back at the condo being polished or did you send it out to the dry cleaners?"

She paced behind him again. All the better to slide a blade between his ribs, he thought dourly. Resisting the urge to clutch his shoulder, he wheeled the horse around to face her. The simple motion made his ears ring and his head spin.

"Cease your infernal pacing, woman!" he bellowed.

"Or I'll—" He hesitated, at a loss to come up with a threat vile enough to stifle this chattering harpy.

She flinched, but the cowed look in her eyes was quickly replaced by defiance. "Or you'll what?" she demanded, resting her hands on her hips. "Carry me off to your castle and ravish me? Chop my saucy little head off?" She shook her head in disgust. "I can't believe Mama thought I'd fall for this chauvinistic crap. Why didn't she just hire a mugger to knock me over the head and steal my purse?"

She marched away from him. Ignoring the warning throb of his muscles, he drove the horse into her path. Before she could change course again, he hefted his sword and nudged aside the fabric of her tunic, bringing the blade's tip to bear against the swell of her left breast. Her eyes widened and she took several hasty steps backward. He urged the stallion forward, pinioning her against the trunk of a slender oak. As her gaze met his, he would have almost sworn he could feel her heart thundering beneath the blade's dangerous caress.

A mixture of fear and doubt flickered through her eyes. "This isn't funny anymore, Mr. Ruggles," she said softly. "I hope you've kept your resume current, because after I tell my father about this little incident, you'll probably be needing it."

She reached for his blade with a trembling hand, stirring reluctant admiration in him. But when she jerked her hand back, her fingertips were smeared with blood.

At first he feared he had pricked her in his clumsiness. An old shame quickened in his gut, no less keen for its familiarity. He'd striven not to harm any woman since he'd sworn off breaking hearts.

She did not yelp in distress or melt into a swoon. She simply stared at her hand as if seeing it for the first time. "Doesn't feel like ketchup," she muttered, her words even more inexplicable than her actions. She sniffed at her fingers. "Or smell like cherry cough syrup."

She glanced down at her chest. A thin thread of blood trickled between her breasts, affirming his fears. But as her bewildered gaze met his and die ringing in his ears deepened to an inescapable roaring, he realized what she had already discovered. Twas not her blood staining her breast, but his own. His blood seeping from his body in welling drops that were rapidly becoming a steady trickle down the blade of his sword. Horror buffeted him as he realized it was he, and not she, who was in danger of swooning. The sword slipped from his numb fingers, tumbling harmlessly to the grass.

He slumped over the horse's neck, clutching at the coarse mane. He could feel his powerful legs weakening, betrayed by the weight of the chain mail that was supposed to protect him. Sweat trickled into his eyes, its relentless sting blinding him.

"Go," he gritted out. "Leave me be."

At first he thought she would obey. He heard her skitter sideways, then hesitate, poised on the brink of flight.

His flesh felt as if it were tearing from his bones as he summoned one last burst of strength to roar, "I bid you to leave my sight, woman. Now!"

The effort shredded the tatters of his will. He could almost feel his pride crumbling along with his resolve, forcing him to choke out the one word he detested above all others. "Please…"

Swaying in the saddle, he pried open his eyes to cast her a beseeching glance. Sir Colin of Ravenshaw had never fallen before anyone, especially not a woman.

And in the end he didn't fall before this one either.

He fell on her.

Sometimes the only thing standing in the way of true love is true friendship…

TIME

by Annette Reynolds

An emotional, powerful story that celebrates all the joys, fears, and passions of true love.

They were the best of friends since high school, an inseparable threesome: Kate Moran, Paul Armstrong, and Mike Fitzgerald. But it was Paul who won Kate's heart and married her, leaving Mike to love Kate from afar. Then, in a tragic accident, Paul died, and for Kate, it was as if she had lost her life, too. Now, after nearly three years of watching Kate mourn, of seeing the girl who loved life become a woman who suffers through it, Mike knows he can't hold back any longer. The time has come to tell her how he feels. And all he can hope is that Kate recognizes what he's known all along: that they've always been perfect for each other. But there are secrets that can shake even the strongest bonds of love and friendship… and betrayals that can tear two lovers apart.

The breeze blowing in from the open window had turned chilly and it woke her. The stiffness in her back brought an involuntary groan, a sound she didn't remember making when she was younger. Like gray hairs and laugh lines that suddenly appeared in her mid-thirties, so these new noises came, too.

The telephone that sat on the end table jangled. It was an old rotary phone from the forties, and she always swore she could see it wiggle and dance as the bell rang. Her cartoon phone. When she picked up, there was no one on the other end. This was a regular occurrence. The C & P Telephone Company—the initials stood for Chesapeake and Potomac but most residents called it Cheapskate and Poky-^-also seemed to date back to the forties. Kate hung up and waited for it to ring again. And it did.

"Kate? It's Mike. Didn't you see my note?"

"What note?" She could tell by the silence that Mike had closed his eyes in annoyance, and she said, "I heard that."

"I left a note by your front door."

"Where?" she continued to bait him.

"On a pushpin right next to the door. It was on a pink flyer for the SPCA Thrift Shop."

"I guess I didn't realize it was something important. What did it say?"

He picked up on her mood. His voice, a well-moderated blend of East Coast inflection with just a touch of Virginia gentleman, took on a slight Irish lilt. Kate called it his leprechaun voice. "They're havin' their annual half-off sale this weekend."

"What are you talking about?"

She didn't seem to be amused. He must have misjudged her. "Never mind. The gist of the note is that Homer is over here visiting me."

She sighed. "I thought it was a little too quiet."

"He got through that hole in the fence again. I can fix it for you, if you want." There was no reply. "Or not. Do you want me to bring him over?"

"If you must."

"I'm afraid I must. Are you decent?"

She smiled at that. It was a very old joke between them. "Never. Come on over."

Kate was still sitting on the couch when the front door opened four minutes later. She heard Homer's toe-nails scrabble across the hardwood floor of the entry hall as he raced to the kitchen, and his food bowl. He never understood why it wasn't perpetually full.

Mike's voice reached her. "Kate? Where are you?"

"In here."

"Where?"

"Just follow the sound of my voice."

"My, we're in a good mood," Mike said, entering the den. He took in her rumpled shirt and puffy eyes. Her dark auburn hair, which usually hung in gleaming waves to her shoulders, had been pulled back in a bar-rette that now stuck out at an angle. Wisps of hair had escaped and formed odd cowlicks. "And you got all dolled up just for me. You really shouldn't have."

"Nice to see you, too." As she spoke the words, her hands went to the barrette and removed it. She ran her fingers through her hair. "I was taking a nap."

Mike leaned against the built-in bookcase and folded his arms across his chest. "Late dinner for two last night?"

Kate eyed him for a split second, then retorted, "Yeah, me and David Letterman."

"Y'know, if you actually went to sleep before two a.m. you wouldn't wake up feeling like crap every day."

"Don't start, Mike. And not that it's any of your business, but I do go to sleep before two a.m."

"Falling asleep on the couch with the TV on isn't what I'd call getting a good night's sleep."

Almost too weary to argue, Kate fixed him with a look that would crumble stone. "I don't need another mother, thanks. And how the hell do you know where I sleep?"

"I got in late last night. Saw the light."

"What is it with you Fitzgeralds? If you're going to lecture me like I'm a child, then you can go home now."

Not wanting to be banished, he unfolded his arms and held them up in surrender. "Hey, I'm sorry. Can we start over?"

Kate looked down at the carpet. "Yeah, sorry. It's been a bad day." Her head came up and she tried to smile. "I could use a cup of coffee. Want one?"

Mike angled his body into one of the kitchen chairs and, with his foot, pulled another chair toward him and propped his long legs on it. Homer, always glad for any company, sat at his side and let Mike scratch his head.

Kate measured coffee into the filter and then took the carafe to the sink. Forgetting the cold water tap was practically welded shut, she grunted when it wouldn't turn. Swearing under her breath, she set the pot down to free both hands. It still wouldn't budge and Mike, hiding a grin, asked, "Can I get that for you?"

"Thanks, but I can do it," she answered, removing the pliers from the drawer.

He shook his head, but didn't say anything.

Once the coffee was perking, Kate realized she still hadn't started the dishwasher. Pulling two mugs out of the top rack, she began washing them.

"Are you sure this isn't too much trouble? We could always go to The Beverley."

Kate turned and gave him a warning look as she dried the mugs with a paper towel. All die dishcloths were in the dryer.

Setting a mug on the table next to him, she asked, "You take milk, right?"

He nodded and watched her open the refrigerator.

She stood in front of it for what seemed a very long time, and Mike suddenly understood why. "Hey, I can drink it black if you're out."

"No!" Her voice wavered momentarily. "No, I must have something you can use."

Mike's legs slipped off the chair and he sat up. "It's okay. Really."

She had closed the door and moved to the cupboards, her hands pushing aside cans and jars. Mike stood as she began frantically pawing through drawers. When her fingers closed around a small packet, she felt triumphant, until she saw it was a Wash'n Dri. Slamming it down on the counter, the tears finally came. Mike's hand on her shoulder made her flinch.

"Stop it, Kate. Forget it"

"I know I'll find something," she said between sobs.

"Katie, darlin', I can't stand to see you like this."

Her voice took on a hard edge. "Then go home, 'cause this is what I am now."

It took all the strength he had not to pull her to him. "I don't think you need to be alone."

"I think I know what I need."

"Christ, but you are pigheaded." He took a deep breath. "Do you really want me to go?" he asked, not wanting to hear her answer.

She nodded. "Yeah—go."

He stared at the back of her head before turning away. He left the way he came. It took her a few moments to realize she'd forgotten to thank him. Picking up one of the two clean mugs, she flung it across the room. It hit the stove top, shattering. Homer slunk out of the room, leaving her alone. It was what she wanted, after all. Wasn't it?

He had loved her—no, make that obsessed over her—for as long as he could remember. It was their junior year. She had walked into their English class that first week of October—her family had just moved to the area—and she captured the heart of every male in the room.

The teacher introduces her as Kathleen Moran and asks her to tell the class a little about herself. With a tremendous amount of poise, she walks to the teacher's desk, puts down her purse and books, and says,

"Hi. I just moved here from Oklahoma but I was born in Pennsylvania. My father just retired from the Army and we're in Staunton because he's going to be teaching at the military academy. This is the eighth school I've gone to, but so far it seems like the friendliest." She looks at the faces watching her and notices a familiar one. It is a girl named Chris who lives across the street from her. They have already spoken and so she focuses on her when she says, "I've lived in five states and one foreign country but I've never seen any place as pretty as Staunton. And, by the way, everyone calls me Kate."

Her smile encompasses the entire room. It is impossible not to smile back at her. The boys have seen all they need to know about Kate Moran. Their minds are filled with ideas on how to make this auburn-haired beauty feel welcome. The girls' minds, however, are filled with other, less-tban-cbaritable, ideas. And yet they find themselves smiling at her, too. Chris, Kate's first acquaintance, has already spread the word about this newcomer but nothing has prepared them for what she looks like. Chris's assessment of the situation had been, "You won't like her when you see her, but once you talk to her, she's pretty cool."

The teacher waits for the whispers to subside, then says, "Maybe you can tell us about some of your interests
."

Kate has already picked up her belongings from the

teacher's desk and is walking toward an empty desk, when she tosses off, "Oh, I like rock music, reading, antiques. But I lave baseball." She carefully Hides her miniskirted body into the seat. All male eyes move their field of vision dawn a foot. "Especially the San Francisco Giants
."
Kate takes a pencil out of her purse, opens her spiral notebook, and looks up at the teacher expectantly
.

"
Yes. Well. Thank you, Kate." He bos to physically pull himself away from her dark blue eyes. "We're glad to have you here
."

Paul Armstrong leans forward and taps Mike on the shoulder. Best friends since the third grade, Mike knows what Paul is going to say before the words are out of his mouth.

"I think I'm in love," Paul whispers. It is his standard remark, made in his usual offhand way. This time he means it.

"You and me both, bud. Think she can handle the Dynamic Duo?" comes Mike's conditioned response. He keeps his voice light, but his heart feels heavy. He really wants this one, but Kate Moran seems to be made far Paul. And they agreed a long time ago not to let a girl get in the way of their friendship.

What did they know at the age of sixteen? They were young and stupid. And in the end it didn't really matter anyway. Kate had come into the lives of Paul and Mike not knowing the rules, and when Paul Armstrong saw her that crisp October day, the rule book got tossed out the window.

Mike held a glass of J & B as he stared out the bay window in his bedroom. With all the leaves off the trees, he had a clear view of her house. The only light he could see came from the den. It seemed to be the only room she used anymore. His sister had told him that she hadn't slept in the bedroom she'd shared with Paul since his death. Kate kept her clothes there and used it as a rather large dressing room, but that was it.

There was a living room and dining room. Both were formal. Packed with antiques that Kate had collected throughout her travels with Paul, they reminded Mike of some of the historic homes he'd visited. Filled with beautiful furnishings, but never used, they seemed like stage settings waiting for the players to make their entrance and bring them to life. Paul and Kate used to give legendary parties. Now, no one entered those rooms.

She had two guest rooms on the second floor. They were at the back of the house, and he guessed she slept in one of them when she wasn't using the couch in the den. Like most Victorian houses, it had one very large bathroom on the second floor, and a very tiny W.C. on the main floor. And, finally, there was the little tower room. He'd been in it only once, when he and Paul had moved some old boxes of papers out of the den. It had been in the dead of winter and they could see their breath as they piled the five years' worth of tax paperwork in a corner. At the time it seemed that the room contained all the usual things people had in their attics… Christinas decorations, old clothing that no one wanted, a shelf covered with magazines, and broken things that needed mending mat no one ever got around to.

Mike brought the highball glass to his lips and sipped the scotch. The ice had melted. It tasted like warm medicine, and he grimaced. Finishing it in one gulp, he turned from the window and went back downstairs to wait for Sheryl and his nephew, Matt. He hadn't seen the boy in nearly a year and he was looking forward to it. He had wanted to invite Kate over, too. That was, rather apparently, out of the question.