by Lynn Kurland
Her cousin lashed out at Zachary suddenly. Mary found herself unequal to determining just what happened next, but when her heart started beating again, she realized that Zachary had rolled under Jackson’s swing, then come up to his feet next to Connor, where he then relieved Nicholas’s fourth son of his sword before Connor could blurt out a protest. He then threw himself into the fray.
He wasn’t Jackson’s equal, but then again, few were. Apart from her brothers, Jackson and Connor were two of the few who gave her father any decent sport at all. If Zachary managed to stand against Jackson for any length of time, it would be a miracle.
Not that he was a poor swordsman, for he wasn’t. He was actually quite good for a man who apparently didn’t make his living with the sword. She also knew he could be quite lethal. There were a handful of ruffians who could have attested to that, if they’d been alive to do so. But best Jackson Kilchurn? Nay, he would never do that.
She supposed it would have gone badly for Zachary at some point, but fortunately Jackson ended the battle prematurely by catching the hilt of Zachary’s sword and sending the blade flying across the hall. It snagged itself in a tapestry, making quite a rending sound as it slit the threads on its way down to the floor.
Parsival tsk-tsked loudly.
Connor walked over to the wall, liberated his sword from the remains of one of his mother’s favorite wall coverings, then resheathed the blade. He shot Jackson a look as he passed him.
“Leave it, Jack.”
“I will not—”
“Leave it. There was nothing happening.”
Mary watched Zachary watch Jackson with a wary eye until her cousin put up his sword with a curse. He glared at Zachary.
“Your life is spared this time, smith. I won’t be so lenient the next time.”
“I appreciate that, my lord,” Zachary said carefully.
Jackson brushed past him, cursing, and made for the kitchens. Mary started out into the hall, but Parsival caught her by the arm.
“I think, cousin,” he said mildly, “that you should, as Connor advised, leave this alone.”
“I was teaching him how to dance,” she whispered sharply.
“He’s obviously a hopeless case. And you may be on the verge of dancing with a different man for the rest of your life.”
She pulled her arm away, glared at him, then walked across the great hall. She didn’t dare look at Zachary, though she did shoot Thaddeus a warning look.
“Mary,” Jackson warned from the back of the hall.
“I’m going to tend your horses!” she shouted before she slammed the hall door shut behind her. By the saints, was she never to know a moment’s peace? All those bloody men who couldn’t seem to keep their noses out of her affairs. ’Twas a wonder she hadn’t been driven daft long ago.
She oversaw the care of the horses, seeing to Parsival’s mount herself only because she needed something to do and his stallion was too feisty for any of the stable lads. She groomed him, then saw to his tack, polishing it far longer than she should have. At least she had peace whilst she sat on the floor in the dirt, rubbing the leather of the saddle until it gleamed by the faint light of the torch.
Once she had polished until she could polish no more, she put the saddle away, then turned to leave the stable. She squeaked in spite of herself.
Zachary was leaning against a post with his arms folded over his chest much as her father had been a pair of nights ago, simply watching her with a very grave expression.
“How long have you been there?” she asked.
“Quite a while.”
“And you didn’t offer to help?”
“I wasn’t sure I wanted to come between you and your saddle, actually,” he said with a faint smile. “You were possessed of very—how shall we say it?—vigorous humors.” His smile faded. “I understand there was quite a search put on for you this morning.”
“I imagine my father is angry.”
He lifted one eyebrow briefly. “I don’t think angry is the word I would use.”
“Surely he knows this isn’t your fault.”
Zachary shrugged. “I imagine his only concern is one for your safety. Other things will no doubt occur to him as time passes. I’m simply hoping the thought of how attractive I would look impaled on the end of his sword isn’t one of them.”
“Are you coming back to Artane?” she asked in surprise.
He nodded. “I think I should tell your father what you told me.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “Thank you.”
“I’m not sure he’ll believe me, but I’ll try.” He took a step backward and made her a small bow. “After you, my lady.”
She didn’t move. “Are we that, now?”
He hesitated, then smiled grimly. “It was a mistake to be anything else, I think. Your cousins no doubt agree.”
“They’re just protective,” she said quietly.
“I am as well, my lady.” He took a step backward, then nodded toward the hall. “I’ll see you safely inside.”
She walked on ahead because she suspected that if she didn’t, he would simply wait for her all night. She kept her thoughts to herself until they were standing outside the hall door and Zachary was reaching for the latch.
“I don’t think it was a mistake,” she said, very quietly.
He was silent and still for so long, she wondered if he simply couldn’t decide what terrible thing to say to her.
Then she realized she had misjudged him again.
He reached out and very gently smoothed his hand over her hair and down her braid. Then he smiled at her. “Go sleep, wench. I won’t be responsible for you falling off your horse tomorrow.”
“I never fall.”
“So said she who was angling for a tumble.” He opened the door. “After you ... Mary.”
She looked at him solemnly, then walked in front of him into the great hall. She sent Jackson a warning look as she crossed the hall floor, then climbed the stairs to sleep in her aunt’s solar.
And she dreamed of dancing.
Chapter 11
Zachary decided that there were some things in life that were just better left alone. Prickly medieval knights who were very protective of their cousins. Riding for hours after not having spent any time on horseback over the winter. Swearing off certain things and actually formulating those forbidden items into some sort of list.
It was bad karma, apparently.
He traced his current situation back to that fateful day, which couldn’t have been more than a week ago, when Michael Smythe-Gordon and his lovely pugilist sister, Beatrice, had helped him down their equally lovely Regency-era stairs. If he’d just dusted himself off and driven through their front gates without any resolutions, he probably wouldn’t have found himself in Fate’s sights. But no, he’d had to go and make a damned list. Change jobs. Change girlfriends—and avoid any with titles. Change weekend and holiday habits. And as a result, where was he?
Masquerading as a blacksmith in medieval England after time traveling to a keep where the lord’s daughter just happened to be the most gorgeous, fascinating, courageous woman he’d ever had the pleasure of not being able to fall in love with. One he’d promised to try to get out of a potential marriage to the biggest jerk this side of the English Channel. One who deserved a man who would appreciate her passionate nature and untempered mouth.
Where was that nice, safe, unremarkable life?
Not within reach, apparently. He dismounted in front of the stables with the little traveling company and wondered which made more sense: pulling Mary behind his back so Robin didn’t kill her, or hiding behind Mary so Robin didn’t kill him.
The good lord of Artane looked capable of either, or both, but he wasn’t a coward and neither was Mary. He walked with her, wondering if he could put in a good word for her before Jackson opened his big mouth and told Robin things that would only add fuel to the fire. He ignored that little nagging voice—Jamie’s, probably—that
told him he should just keep his own big mouth shut.
He ignored that voice because Mary was counting on him to at least make the effort of helping her. Besides, it was entirely possible that she might have convinced her father of Styrr’s character herself even if he hadn’t found himself loitering in 1258. He was only strengthening the slightest bit an event in history that would have taken place anyway.
Surely.
He stopped a few paces away from Robin. The lord of Artane was absolutely stony-faced. Jackson, however, was not only willing to let his emotions show on his face, he was happy to have them show in his voice.
“We found them dancing together at Wyckham.”
Zachary was actually quite glad at that moment that he’d mastered Jamie’s look of ... well, nothing. He looked at Robin with what he was certain was a look as inscrutable as the one Robin was favoring him with. Robin stared at him in silence for another protracted minute, then turned back to Jackson.
“And?”
Jackson was practically spluttering with fury. “There were ruffians littering the road and musicians at Wyckham, Uncle. Musicians playing music!”
“My brother has more patience for all that screeching than I do,” Robin said, “which is why he keeps all those lads about who are infinitely inferior to his wife in the art. But what about the ruffians?”
“Five of them,” Parsival put in helpfully. “A pair of them were actually still alive. Jackson did them the favor of wringing confessions from them before he put them to the sword. Apparently our good smith here defended Mary quite well. They were convinced he was a demon.”
“I’m not sure I don’t believe the same thing,” Jackson growled.
Robin shot him a look, then turned back to Parsival. “And then?”
“We had a decent supper at Wyckham, sent Mary to bed, then gathered her up and brought her back this morning. Nothing else of interest.”
Zachary watched Robin consider for a bit longer. He looked at the lads, then turned to look at Mary.
“Go upstairs to your mother’s solar.”
“Father—”
“And remain there until I give you leave to come below again,” he said briskly. “And if you even so much as go near the outer gates, mistress, I’ll lock you in your bedchamber. You’re dismissed.”
Mary stared at her father for a moment or two in silence, then walked away, her back ramrod straight. Zachary watched her go, but said nothing. He saw her pause as she stood on the top step leading into the great hall. She made no move, she simply looked at him over her shoulder, then turned away and went inside.
“I think this smith—”
“Jackson, go inside and find something to eat,” Robin said shortly.
“But—”
“Then meet me in the lists,” Robin said sharply. “And if you say another word, I will keep you there for the next fortnight without pause. If you think I cannot, think again.”
Connor and Thaddeus slunk off without hesitation, apparently before the same invitation was extended to them. Jackson made his uncle a stiff bow, then walked away.
Well, after Zachary found himself the recipient of a look full of the promise of retribution. Zachary only smiled faintly and nodded, acknowledging the inevitability of unpleasant things to come.
Parsival made Robin a very low bow, then straightened. “I haven’t said anything, you know.”
Robin nodded with a jerk over his shoulder toward his hall. “Continue on with that sort of restraint and you’ll find yourself remaining in my good graces.”
Parsival left without comment.
Zachary clasped his hands behind his back, hoping he wasn’t making an enormous mistake in leaving himself open for any stray daggers to be flung into his chest. He returned Robin’s look steadily. There was nothing else to do. Robin would either do him in, or he wouldn’t. He supposed there wasn’t much middle ground with Mary’s father.
Robin studied him for several moments in silence, then he pursed his lips. “You’re here again. Inside my gates.”
“I had to bring your daughter back.”
“I’m assuming you didn’t take her in the first place.”
“Nay, my lord, I didn’t.”
Robin chewed on something for an extended period of time, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to spew it out. Zachary watched the man’s mask slip briefly and saw just what Mary’s leaving had cost him.
“I will admit,” Robin said finally, “that I wondered if you had taken her with you.”
Zachary shook his head slowly. “Nay, my lord. I wouldn’t have repaid your generosity that way.”
“Good sense did prevail eventually,” Robin continued, as if he hadn’t heard Zachary. “My wife’s good sense, I’ll concede. Once we realized Mary had gone, I suspected she would catch you eventually and you would make for Wyckham.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You could have let the lads return with her.”
Zachary nodded slowly. “I could have, my lord, but that wouldn’t have allowed me to do what I promised to do.”
“And what, pray tell, is that?” Robin asked with a snort. “Talk me to death like that damned Jackson Kilchurn? Startle me like those bloody little imps, Theophilus and Samuel? I vow if I find them hiding in another untoward place, I will throw them in the dungeon.”
Zachary smiled. “I wouldn’t blame you. But nay, my lord, I have a more specific purpose in mind. I promised your daughter I would speak to you.”
Robin looked at him for a moment in silence, then his mouth fell open. “About what? Something to do with you?”
“Well, nay,” Zachary said, slightly taken aback. That hadn’t been his intention, of course, though he was slightly surprised to find he wished it had been. “Nay, my lord,” he said, dragging himself back to the matter at hand, “I wanted to tell you of her unease about Styrr.”
Robin pursed his lips. “I know all about it.”
Zachary imagined that Robin had been down this path more than once with Mary already. There was no sense in traveling it again when the destination was what he needed to reach as quickly as possible. He would just have to get to the point before Robin lost all patience.
“My lord, she fears—”
“Being wed, aye, I know,” Robin interrupted. “Do you know that she actually tried to convince me to hire her as a stable lad rather than resign herself to being a bride? It required almost three days in the lists to rid myself of all the shouting I wanted to do at the mere thought.”
Zachary wasn’t at all surprised, given that he’d had about the same reaction. He considered, then chose his words carefully. “Being willing to reduce herself to stable lad says something, does it not?”
“It says she’s bloody stubborn and I never should have let her up on a horse.”
“It’s more than that, my lord—”
“By the saints,” Robin said with a snort, “do you champion all disobedient lords’ daughters by bludgeoning their fathers with endless chatter, or do you simply go about rescuing maids who seem to need it?”
Zachary winced in spite of himself. He’d certainly champi oned a girl or two in the past, but he couldn’t say it had turned out very well. This was different. It was different because he was doing the bare minimum necessary to simply nudge along what likely would have happened anyway. No more.
No matter how much more he would have liked to do.
“Nay, my lord,” Zachary said faintly, “though it seems to me that your daughter is worth championing at any cost. Especially given that she fears for her life.”
“Proof?” Robin demanded.
“I just have a feeling—”
“What a womanly load of tripe,” Robin grumbled. “I’ve known Geoffrey of Styrr for years now and found him to be, as I said, a fool. He’s nothing more than he appears to be: enamored of himself and easily intimidated. I will terrorize him regularly and she will have a good life.”
“If she’s allowed to live to enjoy that life.”
Robin shot him a look of warning. “Whilst I appreciate your enthusiasm, Master Smith, I think I’ve heard enough.”
Zachary let out his breath slowly, then nodded. He couldn’t force Mary’s father to believe what he didn’t care to, and he couldn’t stay to be Mary’s bodyguard indefinitely.
Even if he could have brought himself to watch her marry a man who didn’t love her.
He made Robin a small bow, then straightened and attempted a smile. “Of course, my lord. I appreciate the time and the ear.”
“I imagine you do.” He frowned. “Now, what are your plans? Is there yet another concession you will seek before you go?”
Zachary shook his head. “I simply returned to see Mary safely home. I’ll be on my way now.”
“No horse?”
“My feet will serve me well enough.”
Robin stared at him for a very long handful of minutes in silence, then nodded. “And you’ll return home this time?”
“With any luck.”
Robin glanced toward the lists, then back at him. “I have business with my nephew, else I would at least see you fed.”
“I’ll be fine without, my lord.”
Robin hesitated, then held out his hand. “A safe journey to you then, lad.”
Zachary shook Artane’s hand, then made him another low bow. “Thank you, my lord, for all your aid.”
Robin looked at him with another thoughtful frown, then lifted his eyebrows briefly and walked off toward his lists.
Zachary glanced up at the keep one last time, then turned and walked down toward the barbican. He had done what he’d said he would do. All that was left was to get himself back to where he belonged. He considered his potential destination and decided that perhaps a change of direction might be useful. He would walk up the coast and look for a particular clutch of rocks he knew could provide him with a quick trip back to the twenty-first century. Much closer than Falconberg and perhaps even free of highwaymen looking for goods he couldn’t provide.
He walked out of the gates without looking back.