by Lynn Kurland
"All right," she said, lifting her chin. "Do what you have to."
"You'll be here when I return?"
It was on the tip of her tongue to say Where else would I go, but she stopped herself just in time.
She took another breath. The pond was deep and she had no idea what was lurking on the bottom, but there was no sense in not jumping in with both feet.
"I'll be here." She paused. "And that's my choice."
He smiled again, and she wondered why in the world he didn't have a line a mile long of girls waiting for that look. Then again, maybe he didn't show it to very many people.
"Have you ever had a girlfriend?" she asked.
"Women?" He looked dumbfounded. "Dozens."
"Why didn't you marry any of them?"
He laughed and shook his head. "By the saints, lady, you have no fear of me, do you? That isn't a question many would dare ask."
She only waited. If he had some major flaw, it was best she know about it now.
"I'm not overly wealthy," he said, looking amused. "I have too many scars from battle. Or perhaps 'tis I was waiting for the Future to spew you back at me. Does that satisfy?"
Before she could find any good response to that, he had kissed her again and then was leading her back to the chapel, still shaking his head and smiling.
What else could she do but the same?
seven
William stood in the shadows of the trees and looked at the keep before him. He realized with wry amusement that he'd stood in the same place the day before, staring in much the same way, but with far different thoughts. He'd wanted his keep, to be certain, but he'd been driven to action by thoughts of the manly comforts of a warm fire, a well-manned garrison, and lists for his pleasure.
Odd how the passage of a single day could change a heart so.
He still wanted his keep, of course, and lists for himself and his garrison, but added to that was the thought of hearth and home for a wife and children—one wife in particular, that is.
He eased back into the forest and made his way silently around the perimeter of the castle, making a mental note to clear more trees when the keep was finally his. 'Twas far too easy for an enemy to hide himself in such substantial growth, even if William found himself obliged a time or two to crawl on his belly to take advantage of the cover of smaller bushes and things.
He crept around to the back of the keep and waited for a goodly while to make certain there was no stray guard haunting the walls. He saw no movement, but that didn't satisfy him. He had a very good reason to keep himself alive, and he suspected that reason would be passing angry with him if he left her stranded with Peter and the priest. He tightened the strap that bound his sword to his back and felt himself begin to smile in spite of the seriousness of his situation. By the saints, the woman was fascinating. Not only was she looking more beautiful to him by the heartbeat, but she could read.
Perhaps she had learned that in the Future as well.
By the saints, he could scarce fathom such a thing as a body traveling from another time. But he could fathom her in his bed, next to him at supper and bearing him a dozen children with riotous hair and eyes so blue they would hurt a man to look in them.
And if he could hope for the latter, perhaps he could believe the former.
All of which left him where he was at present—preparing to scale his own walls and rid his keep of his unwelcome and certainly uninvited guests so he could proceed with the rest of his life.
He sighed deeply and steeled himself for what was to come. It would have been easier with a ladder, or a rope for that matter, but those things came with the price of possible discovery, which he was unwilling to pay. He would have to find what finger- and toeholds he could, and pray his eyes had told him true that such things actually existed on the scarred outer walls. He had exceptionally strong hands, which was a boon, and his boots were worn clear through to the toes, which was also a boon at present. And he'd scaled less inviting walls than this with no more than his own poor form as his only aid.
So, taking advantage of the last bit of darkness before dawn, he slipped from shadow to shadow and approached the wall.
It was easier than he'd dared hope, which left him cursing silently at the sorry state of his keep's outer defenses. He would have to see to them at his earliest opportunity. Until he had sufficient men to guard those walls, they would need to be an unassailable shield.
He slithered over the wall and dropped into a crouch on the parapet. His heart raced at the sight of a guardsman he'd narrowly avoided knocking off. The man turned and died before he had the chance to shout a warning. William did not slay him gladly, for he very much suspected that if the men had a choice between him and his sire, they would choose him. But he couldn't allow himself to be discovered, not when the first difficulty had been overcome so quickly.
He pushed the body close to the wall, that it might not be noticed right off, then inspected the inner bailey. From what he could see, his uncle hadn't done justice to the sorry condition of things. The buildings were falling down and the courtyard was covered with piles of what he was sure would eventually reveal themselves to be refuse and waste. He shuddered to think what the inside of the keep would look like.
But 'twas his, this pile of stones, and he would have it, gladly.
He looked up at the sky and was surprised to find that night was waning. Obviously he'd spent more time pondering than he should have. Well, there was naught to be done about it but proceed as quickly as he dared before dawn. Given what he'd observed over the past few days, there weren't all that many souls to be rising and working, but a rooster crowed whether its master willed it or not. 'Twas best he was about his business whilst he still had some cover of darkness to aid him.
He clouted another man into insensibility as he made his way along the walls toward the steps that slid down into the courtyard, but he saw no other man and heard no shout of warning.
There was something rather unsettling about that, on the whole.
He looked for a way into the keep, but saw none but the hall door. It left him with little choice but to enter thereby. He took a final look about the bailey, saw no movement coming even from the poor huts scattered here and there, then began his assault. He hugged the side of the hall and made his way carefully.
No one stopped him.
The hall doors were open, and he walked inside as if he had every right to. The smell alone almost knocked him flat. Once his eyes had ceased to burn from the smokey interior and a few of his wits had returned to him, he noticed something else odd.
There were no men sleeping on the floor.
If he hadn't been unnerved before, he was now.
He knew he had no choice but to search the keep and there was no better place to start than the kitchen. He made his way there carefully. The stench of that place was worse, if possible, than the rest of the hall. There was only a pair of scrawny lads there, sleeping on the floor, apparently quite overcome with weariness. William retreated silently.
He made his way back into the great hall, found a stairwell and climbed it to the upper floor of the keep. He crept down the passageway and peered into a large solar and a small chamber. Both were devoid of all but the most rude and rough bits of furniture. Aside from a single, drunken knight sprawled in a passageway, William found no other bodies.
And then a most unsettling thought occurred to him.
Had he been anticipated?
And then an even more unsettling thought occurred to him.
What if his father was now encircling the chapel with his men?
William thumped back down the stairs, ran through the empty great hall, threw open the doors and crossed the empty courtyard. He was not stopped, saw no soul, and that only added to his fear. By the saints, if he had left Julianna behind in danger when he'd thought the danger was in front of him…
It was only when he reached the gates that he found himself skidding to a halt. He gaped at the sig
ht in front of him and realized just how seriously he'd miscalculated his father's deviousness. He was, quite frankly, amazed that the man had stopped downing his ale long enough to conceive a plan this foul. William felt the point of his sword falling downward until it was stopped by the dirt at his feet.
Ah, by the saints, he hadn't planned for this.
"Look you what I found outside my walls," Hubert drawled. "Three little ruffians bent on mayhem."
William looked at Julianna as she stood next to his father with her glorious hair caught firmly in the bastard's hand. She looked at him, then closed her eyes and winced as Hubert tightened his fist.
Peter and the priest were being held by others of his sire's guard. Even his horses had become prisoners.
"We came to help ye, my lord," Peter squeaked, then he was cuffed into silence.
"He needs all of that he can have," Hubert sneered. "Why Artane thought you could hold this land is beyond me."
William looked at his father and could scarce believe he'd been sired by the fool. William put his shoulders back. His character had been shaped by his grandsire and his uncles and they were the finest of men. Their blood also ran through his veins. Not for the first time, he was very glad his father had departed Artane after William's birth and left him behind in his grandsire's care.
Hubert gestured negligently to one of his men. "Kill him," he said.
William watched a crossbow be lifted, and he cursed. He'd known it. Hadn't he known it? The one thing he could not possibly defend against and that was what he faced. He wondered fleetingly if he could possibly dodge the bolt.
What would become of Julianna otherwise?
The man took aim.
A movement startled William. He looked to Julianna to find that she had elbowed his father full in the nose. The man released her with a howl and clutched his face. Then Julianna prodded the bowman with something held in her hand. He screamed, then fell to the ground, senseless and drooling.
"Stun gun," she said proudly.
Then Hubert struck her full across the face and sent her sprawling on the ground.
William roared. He cut down five of his father's men before they knew what he intended. The remaining five threw down their weapons and backed away. William would have been pleased with himself, and with the hasty release of his squire and priest, but he turned his attentions back to his sire and caught an unobstructed vision of his lady who was now back on her feet.
With his father's knife to her throat.
"It would seem," his father said tightly, "that I have something you want."
William stabbed his sword into the dirt at his feet and placed both hands on the hilt.
"You cannot win, Father," William said, his chest heaving. "Release her."
"Choose," Hubert returned. "The wench or the keep."
William wouldn't have been more surprised if his father had reached out and clouted him on the nose. "But—"
"Choose!" his father shouted. "The wench or the keep! I'll not be left with naught for all my trouble!"
William considered the odds of slaying his father before his sire slew Julianna, but knew almost immediately that such a thing was beyond possibility. He'd already made good use of his own knife by burying it to the hilt in a fallen knight's eye. He could retrieve his sword and heave it at his sire, true, but 'twould be just his luck that his father would use Julianna as a shield.
Julianna shifted with her stun gun in her hand, and William stepped forward instinctively.
"Nay," he said, shaking his head.
"Do not," his sire commanded, pressing the blade more firmly against her neck. A small trickle of red crept down her throat. Julianna lowered her arm, closed her eyes, and swallowed convulsively.
William closed his eyes briefly and saw in his mind the pitiful pile of stones behind him. It was his birthright, a legacy he could pass down to his children, a final gesture of love from a man he had loved with all his heart. It meant security, steadiness, a place of his own—all the things he had never had the whole of his adult life.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at the woman held captive in his father's foul embrace. She had opened her eyes and was now looking at him with absolutely no expression on her face. That alone told him that she was trying very hard not to force him into a decision.
Then she hiccuped.
It came close to slitting her throat for her.
"Daft wench," his father muttered, shifting the blade in his hand.
William smiled in spite of himself and, as he did, he realized the truth of the matter. His home was before him. In truth, if he'd wanted a pile of stones of his own, wouldn't he have found one by now? Apparently he was destined to go about without ties.
Save for the one he intended to make with the woman standing before him now hiccuping madly.
Nay, there had been little need for thought. If the choice was between Julianna or the crumbling wreck behind him, there was no choice to be made.
"Take it," William said, jerking his head toward the hall. "Take your blade from my lady's neck and seek out your comforts within. But remove your steel carefully, Father. You'd not like your death otherwise."
Hubert looked at him narrowly. "Your word that the hall 'tis mine?"
"Aye," William said simply.
"Vow it."
"Oh, by the saints," William said in disgust. "Take the bloody pile of stones. I'll not trouble you further for it. Give it to your other son. If you can find him to foist it upon after you've had done with it."
"Rolfe is a fine—"
"Drunkard and a fool," William finished for him. "Aye, his life is a fitting legacy for your own. I'm certain he'll be quite happy to see what you have for him."
"I never would have given it to you," Hubert snarled.
William shrugged. His elder brother was no doubt lying in some deserted corner of a village, reeking of wine and whatever else he had found to imbibe. The only thing that would have surprised William would have been to find his brother alive and well. Nay, Hubert would not find him to gift him anything.
"Vow it," Hubert repeated stubbornly. "Vow you'll leave me in peace and never return."
William inclined his head. "I vow that I'll leave you in peace and never return. Now, release my lady."
Hubert looked to be considering something foul. William looked at his father dispassionately and shook his head.
"I wouldn't."
His father shifted—the first sign of nervousness William had seen in him.
"Think you I can kill with my sword alone?" William asked pleasantly. "I assure you, Father, that my time spent in the company of honorless mercenaries was not wasted. I can call to mind half a dozen ways to end your life—very painfully, I might add—without putting my hand to my sword."
"You gave me your word you'd leave me be," Hubert said, but there was a quaver in his voice.
"Aye, if my lady comes into my arms unharmed," William said calmly, as if he had an indefinite amount of time to discuss the matter—and as if his heart wasn't beating in his throat with the force of a dozen heavy fists. By the saints, all it would take was the slightest pressure and her throat would be cut. Her bloody hiccups were nigh onto seeing to that by themselves. Her lifeblood would spill from her and there wouldn't be a revenge vile enough to remedy that.
Hubert considered. Then he lifted his knife away. Before William could move, he shoved Julianna toward William. She stumbled and fell facedown in the dirt at William's feet.
But at least she was free. William pulled her up and into his arms. He couldn't look at her. He'd just traded his inheritance for her and he damn well didn't want to see revulsion on her face. He looked at Peter.
"There's another horse inside the gates. Fetch it."
"But—" Hubert protested.
"Payment for your unchivalrous treatment of your future daughter," William said pointedly. "Unless you'd care to haggle more?"
"You said you'd leave me be!"
"I w
ill. And I'll also take your best nag before I leave. Consider yourself fortunate. I could have taken much more."
"Honorless whoreson," Hubert spat.
That stung, but William let it pass. "My vow was to leave you be. I daresay you wouldn't be qualified to judge how I honor that."
Peter returned with a horse that William suspected wouldn't last the se'nnight, but at least it would carry the priest. William threw Peter up onto the packhorse, tossed the priest onto the feeble nag, then led his trembling lady over to his own mount and helped her up into the saddle. He looked once more at the hall that was no longer his, then at his sire.
And then he looked up at the woman with the riotous hair and striking blue eyes and found himself smiling in spite of his attempts to stifle it.
"Well?" he asked.
"Hell of a trade," she said hoarsely.
William laughed as he swung up behind her. He looked at his sire and gestured to the keep.
" 'Tis yours, Father. May you live long to enjoy it."
Hubert glared at him, but tromped inside the gates just the same. His five remaining guardsmen followed him none-too-eagerly. Well, the man he'd left senseless on the wall would wake up soon enough, as well as the drunkard in the passageway, and perhaps they could cheer their fellows. William felt a weight come off his shoulders and he whistled cheerfully as he turned his horse south. Perhaps binding himself to a hall was truly not for him.
"Where are we going, my lord?" Peter asked.
"I've no idea," William said pleasantly.
He had several destinations in mind, but none of them would be reached that day, so what was the point in worrying about it? They would ride for a while, then he would give thought to where he might take his lady.
"I'm—hic—sorry," she whispered.
"Nay," he said, shaking his head. "Do not be. 'Twas a fair trade."
She took several deep breaths and, miracle of miracles, her breathing returned to normal. She relaxed in his arms.
"I probably should have stayed at the chapel," she offered.
"Aye, well, perhaps that is true."