by K. A. M'Lady
His deep voice vibrated authority, his words reverberating through her. Staring up at him with awe, her eyes grazed over his features. He was well over six feet in height, and his tall, lean stance demanded attention. His voice, a deep rich baritone, flowed through her and bespoke of his power and authority.
Large arms crossed a wide chest that was covered in armor and his long, dark, softly curling, raven-black hair swept over the edges of his shoulders. He wore no helmet so his features were clearly marked. He had a strong, square chin that showed several days’ growth of beard, adding to his ruggedness. High, rigid cheekbones and a patriarch nose helped to emphasize his handsome features. His eyes, an intense shade of gray like a winter storm in full tempest, stared back at her with what appeared to be contempt, causing her to take a step back away from him. Brooding malevolence poured from him in waves. He was moodily handsome; there was no doubt about it.
She knew she had to run.
Quietly, in the Saxon language, he said, “Do not do it, demoiselle. You will be unable to flee, and will only cause yourself more harm.”
His voice was soft, yet still demanding; annoyance and command entwined as one. Still, Gabriella knew she could not stand and debate things with him. There was no chance this side of a frigid winter in hell that she was willing to admit to herself that this was no dream.
Quietly, in the back of her mind, her conscience pricked. Maybe there was a small possibility that this was real. And, if it were real, then she was in serious trouble. Shaking her head to dispel her wayward thoughts, she looked around at the warriors surrounding her.
They were covered in dirt and what appeared to be blood. Some were still in armor, and others wore shirts beneath mail of steel. They all carried huge swords and shields that were half her size. Remarkably, their attire and weaponry all looked real to her studious mind. Images of the weapons of her studies flashed through her confused mind. She gauged her options quickly and decided that she would be safer away from all of this, and hopefully, she would eventually be able to make some sense of it, if she could get away.
This has to be some sort of reenactment, her frazzled mind feebly told her, and these men have to be actors playing some part in a Renaissance show. Clinging to this version of reality, she told herself that there must be a town close by, and that if she could get to it, then she could find a phone or a cop. Something or someone that could help make sense out of this ridiculous nightmare.
Once more, she looked from the immense, deeply handsome warrior who stood planted like an oak before her, to the men surrounding her. Decision made, she turned and ran, hoping that she would be able to step between the horses and flee to safety.
The warrior shook his head, muttered a curse and took a step to halt her flight. Another man quickly dismounted, landing soundlessly as he stepped in front of her, reaching for her. She dogged him, turning at the last second. Looking over her shoulder as she ran, she forgot where the warrior was and in her fear and folly, she ran straight into his chest. He quickly grabbed her in a vise-like grip, pulling her against him.
Gabriella looked up into those steel gray eyes, felt the wall of his large chest press against her, felt the strength of his fingers as they curled around her arms and, in that instant, knew fear so intense that it shook her to the core. However, mixed with that fear was the tingling sensation of desire, unknown, untried, with an intensity she had never felt. Her breath caught as she whispered a silent plea for release right before the world swam across her vision, her legs buckled and she collapsed into his arms.
Chapter Six
Damon lifted the girl into his arms, her weight seeming no more than feather down. Gazing down upon her pale features, he watched the fading sun catch the shimmer of her hair as it fell softly over his arm. The texture poured through his hand like silk as he deftly cradled her head.
Her features were slack and peaceful, innocent and striking. Like an angel. I do not need this complication, he wearily thought. There is no place in my life, or in my armed camp for that matter, for a lady. But holding her, her head pressed to his heart, her fire-streaked hair hanging over his arm and her soft curves filling his hands, he knew that he could not, at this moment, let her go.
It was like some sort of vision he’d seen in the bleak recesses of his mind. His soul somehow knew her and he couldn’t explain the feelings that coursed through him. She was soft and fragile and reminded him of a peacefulness he’d never truly known, or understood.
Silently, he yearned.
Longing and desire were intermingled in his thoughts as he continued to look down upon the soft visage of her creamy complexion. His subconscious, the portion where his darkness held reign, kept trying to remind him that one lady wife had already died and that he did not have need of another woman in his life. And yet his soul cried out that this was right, that this mere slip of a girl somehow belonged to him. Belonged with him...at his side.
His thoughts went back to the days before he had left his castle on this fool’s errand. His housekeeper, Rosalynn, had said that his life would be changing. But she did not go into further explanation. His people called her a witch and he had always shrugged off their misgivings. She said that she’d seen a portent in the waters of the well, mist and haze revealed great disruptions, fire and death, and he should be prepared.
She’d always talked of seeing the future, but he always took it as an old woman’s feeble stories. Stories meant for children at bedtime or the late night fires of a camp. Was this the vision she had seen? Was this tiny creature the one who would bring such great changes?
Too much war and the death of those I care for is beginning to catch up with me, he thought sourly, shaking his head to loosen the siege of fanciful thoughts. Witches and fairies indeed, he grunted. Next, I’ll be seeing gnomes running amok in the forest.
With what little control he had left over his wayward thoughts, he carried the girl back to his horse and, with easy agility, mounted the beast with her in his arms. He held her across his lap, her head held within the curve of his shoulder, her soft, womanly scent filling his senses.
Tanak, Richard and Sedrick waited, keeping watch over him as the others had returned to the camp. Without uttering a word, he turned back towards the tree line and the quiet solitude of their camp.
His men knew their duties; they would attend to their own horses and hunt for game that would become their dinner. Several men had already started small fires near their pallets and began the preparations for the rabbits and squirrels that would become their meals. With Damon’s brutal history on the battlefields and his strong leadership, not one uttered a single question about the girl. She was his now, for that was the way of things, and they questioned his authority at their peril.
Dismounting, he laid her near a large fallen tree trunk in the circle of a small clearing. Her hair picked up the subtle hue of campfires and he thought of her as a woodland fairy slumbering sweetly on a bed of green. Gently he caressed his thumb across her cheek, telling himself he was merely checking for a fever, for in truth the cut to her head had bled quite liberally.
He brushed several stray strands of hair from her face, admiring the softness of her skin. Then he rose to tether his horse. He efficiently removed Fallon’s saddle and brushed the dirt from his horse’s sides, trying to keep from looking back at the resting woman. He could have had his squire care for the horse, but Fallon trusted few and nipped at many. Once finished, Damon walked to the small creek to get water for cleansing the woman’s wound. Then he went in search of the herbs that Rosalynn had taught him to seek out, woundwort to bind and yarrow for fever. He worked efficiently and quickly, all the while considering the woman with fiery hair.
Caution, whispered his conscience. Idly, he wondered if she was in league with the rebels or if she, too, was a victim of the ceaseless destruction that riddled the land. The vivid details of burning villages, slaughtered cows and rotting bodies tore through his mind like a scimitar cutting flesh. He c
ould almost smell the blackened fields, their once golden stalks withering to dust in the red-hot flames.
He could see the bodies littering the ground, the land soaked with blood. He could hear the victims screaming with their last dying breaths, each sob echoing in the darkness. He would hear their voices in his sleep, begging him for vengeance, begging for release.
Tis not right that she be traveling alone, he thought coarsely, and then he wondered if those she had traveled with had been attacked and only she had survived. He could picture the rebels clearly, covered in the sweat and blood of their previous victims. They would appear out of nowhere, the women would scream and the men would gather their arms. Only to be cut down one by one, their lifeless bodies left to rot in a midday sun.
This last was a plausible explanation for why the country was riddled with violence despite William’s efforts to unite his country. But no, there were no wagon tracks, no other hoof prints other than that of he and his men. He had viewed the scene upon arrival and quickly noted the uninterrupted strands of grass, the field untouched by destruction. There were no bodies covering the field, no bloodstains upon the grass.
The field was completely untouched. So how did she come to be there? Who had brought her there? Where was she from? Who was she? And most importantly, who was she in league with?
He would wait until she came to her senses to discuss these possibilities. First, I will start with her name. He returned to camp and knelt beside her to clean her wound. Gently he wiped away the blood that had stained her face until the wound was revealed above her right eye. It was a large gash, stretching from above her eyebrow to the edge of her hairline, but it was not deep enough to need to be stitched. ‘Twas good, for the thought of having to take a needle to her fair skin made him shudder.
He ground the herbs between two rocks that lay near the fallen tree, making a paste, and applied them to her head, then, taking a strip of cloth from his bag, he wound it around her head to keep it in place. She murmured in her unconsciousness, her soft lips moving ever so quietly.
Damon was mesmerized. Like a dream she entered his life, filling his head with wicked thoughts at the mere sight of her. She murmured again and he rubbed his finger across her bottom lip, wanting her, wanting to press his lips to hers and kiss her awake. He shook his head in an attempt to dispel his thoughts. “Madness,” he grumbled and rose to gather branches for his own fire.
He watched as the fire’s orange and gold flames filled the clearing with warmth and glimmered over the pale visage of the unconscious girl. “Trouble, ‘tis naught but trouble and folly a woman brings.” His darkened heart kept speaking, mumbling from his lips like the rantings of a madman. He was sure there would be no peace for the remainder of this journey, or at least until he decided what to do with her. He took one last glance at her russet hair and full lips and knew that she would bring nothing but trouble to his life.
Pushing her from his thoughts, Damon rose from the fire and headed towards the stream. He knew his men would not trouble her, as she was now in his possession. Those around the camp would make sure she did not happen to awake and attempt to flee, for though they were hardened warriors, they did not wish to initiate his wrath by losing one small woman from their camp.
* * * * * *
Moments passed as Gabriella lay listening to the sounds around her. The crackle of flame and gruff, low voices filled her ears as consciousness returned.
Slowly she opened her eyes and looked up to see a mass of tree limbs and golden leaves swaying gently in the wind. The canopy of color was fading and blending with the night, but the burnt oranges, greens and golds were still discernible by the pale glow of the rising moon.
She lay blinking, rubbing her forehead, trying to ease the pain and weariness from her frazzled mind. She wondered briefly if she had dreamt the visions that had been flowing behind her eyes. But, no. The dark warrior had been there, his scent still lingered in the campsite. He smelled of deep forest, earth and leather.
Attempting to sit up, she had to grab the nearest tree limb to stop the dizziness that clung to her. Her vision was still a bit blurred as she looked around, trying to get her bearings. With a sigh of remorse, tinged with a small surge of panic, she noticed that there were still men dressed as armed knights gathered haphazardly around the clearing. She was now, obviously in some sort of camp, she noted, taking in the sight of bedrolls and small cooking fires scattered throughout her surroundings. All this confirmed that she had not dreamt anything.
“Shit!” she whispered. None of this makes any sense, she thought, pressing her palms against her eyes. Her head ached, and she could feel the bandage that now was wrapped around her head. Her nerves were wound tight as a metal spring. How in the world did I end up in medieval England? A person can’t be in one time period one minute and in a different one the next. It’s just not possible, and yet…here I am…wherever here might be.
No, she told herself firmly. Get a grip on yourself, Gab, you are not in medieval England, no matter how enticing a notion that that is. You are a professional anthropologist with a Masters degree. You’re a smart, intellectual woman, and in full capacity of all your wits. And, it is not possible to wake up in a different time period. So, now, how the hell do I get out of here?
Glancing around the encampment, she knew she had to find some way to escape. Then reality reared its ugly head, she didn’t really have anyone to get back to. Sure, the museum might be interested in where she was, for a little while. Then they’d just set someone else up to finish the work. Again. Just like they did for her father.
Thinking of her father brought fresh tears to her eyes. Her parents would not miss her, for they were nowhere to be found. Christ, what is happening? Slowly a single tear fell down her cheek, her heart becoming a solid ache. Hearing a branch snap closely, she quickly wiped her face and looked around for the reason for the noise.
The dark knight approached her. He wore no armor, and his thick arms slowly swung as he approached. Groaning at her increasing misgivings, her heart thundered in her chest as she watched him draw near. Brilliant, she thought sarcastically, the perfect end to a perfect day! Quickly gathering her resolve, she looked up as he stopped before her, his long, lean frame an unmovable mountain, his silver-gray eyes an oasis of moonlight. Doomed! I am definitely doomed.
* * * * * *
Damon noted the trail of tears that stained her cheeks and a portion of his heart felt compassion for her. He was also aware of the frantic pulse in the vein of her neck. She is afraid. Well, ‘tis good she is afraid. One should always fear their captor, he told himself, despite the emotions that coursed through his veins. Emotions he thought long buried beneath the frozen surface of his heart.
The fact remained that he was a warrior, and his instincts were strong. He did not know this woman, who she was nor where she had come from. It was her allegiances that he was concerned with, and he would watch her like a cat watching its quarry.
She was obviously no mere Saxon peasant, Damon considered, based on her finely made garb—even if it was not what he was accustomed to seeing a lady dressed in. He needed to know if she was an enemy of his King, or if she were loyal to the crown. He was a man of action and purpose, yet he did nothing without a plan. And no plan of his had ever failed.
Except your former marriage, his conscience jibed.
Cease! I’ve a plan and that’s all that matters.
Towering over her, he narrowed his eyes and searched her face for any sign of malice. He placed his hands upon his hips and looked down into the glossy green of her eyes.
* * * * * *
His voice rumbled like the sound of distant thunder. “What is your name, demoiselle?”
The words reverberated through her like the knell of a drum. His stance was meant to intimidate her. His scowl, fierce and brooding, meant to intimidate. Frantically, Gabriella’s heart skipped as she struggled to decide what to tell him. The whole situation was too weird for words and she was
still unwilling to believe she had somehow ended up in the Middle Ages.
This is total unbelievable crap! Gabriella thought. It is just not possible. Is it? She just wasn’t sure. So should she lie? Or, should she plead that she had no recollection or should she try some semblance of truth? Lying didn’t seem like a very good idea yet the truth would be far too unbelievable. This whole damn situation is too unbelievable for words, she told herself for what seemed the millionth time.
He seemed to be waiting patiently for her to answer, and despite his calm appearance, she was deeply aware of his presence. He was like a volcano waiting for the moment of eruption. It was his contained power that advised her to answer truthfully. Yet his eyes, their smoky gray color shimmering in the firelight, made her breath catch. Something deep inside her told her she could trust him, that he would protect her. Madness, she grunted.
Her conscience whispered caution. She would choose her words carefully before giving him too much information. She knew from her years of anthropology studies that if time had indeed twisted, as bent as that idea seemed, and he was truly an eleventh-century knight—and as far as she could tell from their weapons, their garb and their other accoutrements, he was—if he knew the truth, she would probably be burned as a witch or suffer some other horribly gruesome travesty.
And, despite the way he looked at her and made her feel, she was too afraid to trust anyone until she knew for certain what fate had done to her. Straightening her spine and taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she stated, “My name is Gabriella DeVoux. And you are?”
At her question, he raised his brow. He chose not to respond, but continued with his inquiry.
“Gabriella,” he replied, his voice sliding silkily over her name. “Tell me, what is a woman such as you doing traveling alone? Where is your husband or father?” He clutched his chin, purposefully rubbing it as though deep in thought.