A kind of shaky feeling in her stomach telling her something was wrong wiggled around her gut and made her bones feel like they’d turned to jelly. She wobbled but didn’t fall. The men looked like the kind of guys any rational woman would cross the street to avoid. Not only did they look mean, they looked dangerous.
The man who’d swung at her dismounted from his horse, came to stand in front of her, and started yelling. She listened but couldn’t make out what he was saying. It kinda sounded like French, but she didn’t speak French, so she wasn’t really sure. She’d been to Paris once, but this sounded different. Maybe another region in France? Crap on toast, had she gone back in time only to end up in France instead of England?
As she was trying to figure out where she was and when she was, the man grabbed hold of her.
“Take your hands off me now or lose them.” She glared back at the man. Mean men were like mean dogs: never show fear.
By this time the other men had dismounted and surrounded her. She had a bad feeling. But she would brazen it out. She turned and looked each one of them in the eye, giving them her meanest look.
“My boyfriend will be along shortly. You better not touch me.”
It seemed the wrong thing to say. The men grabbed at her hair and took hold of her arms. Blackness rose deep within. She felt hot all over. There was no one around. No one to save her if these men decided to hurt her. Or do something much worse. She kicked the man closest to her as hard as she could. Using the palm of her hand, she pushed another one hard enough to make him fall over backward. She felt hair tearing from her scalp as she turned and ran.
Up ahead she could see trees. If she could make it into the woods, maybe she could hide. Melinda ran for all she was worth. She heard cursing behind her, knew if they got on their horses they’d capture her in a minute. The sounds of men yelling to each other filled the air. It sounded like they were getting back on their horses. Behind her, she heard heavy breathing. Risking a quick look over her shoulder, Melinda let out a yelp. The man was so close he could almost grab her. Fear gave her speed. Thank the stars she’d worn practical low-heeled boots instead of heels. She ran as fast as she could, panting and sweating. She hadn’t even run this fast at last year’s Lilly Pulitzer sample sale.
The trees were so close. Yes. She was going to make it. And as that tiny flicker of hope blossomed inside, the heavy breather tackled her from behind. She went down, the breath knocked out of her. Melinda struggled to pull air into her lungs and knew how fish must feel when they’re caught and thrown on the dock.
He straddled her, leaned close to her face, leering. She gagged from the smell of his breath. He was missing several teeth, and the rest of them looked awfully yellow. Didn’t they brush their teeth here? Oh, my. He smelled like he slept in garbage. She gagged. Yuck.
“Get off me.” Melinda thrashed, bucking to dislodge him, but the man seemed glued to her. Smelly Breath pulled a piece of dirty cloth from somewhere on his person and tied it around her mouth. She dry-heaved against the cloth, trying not to throw up. The scrap of fabric smelled awful. And the taste—she didn’t want to think about where it had been or what she was tasting. Double yuck.
The rest of the men caught up to them. And the one she’d kicked in the family jewels returned the favor, kicking her in the side and sending her to her knees. Hard enough she saw spots in front of her eyes. She swallowed down the nausea and bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. You can’t pass out. If you do, they’ll rape you.
The man she’d pushed held the other one back. He rubbed his clavicle and spat. The glob of icky yellow stuff landed next to her knee and a fresh wave of nausea rolled over her.
“I get first go.”
Another of the men peered dubiously at her. “Are you sure ’tis a woman? She’s unnaturally tall. Mayhap ’tis a pretty boy.”
Smelly Breath grabbed her.
“She’s a woman.” He leered to his friends as he untied the gag and kissed her.
Gross. He slobbered all over her face as she pushed him away. He laughed. Melinda spat at him even as a voice in the back of her head told her it was completely unladylike and she should be ashamed. It was the perfectly proper voice of Aunt Pittypat, who was a hippie with flawless manners. She’d dance naked under a full moon and serve snacks afterward on china that was two hundred years old.
Some of the men lost interest. Now only two men surrounded her. The leader and the one she’d kicked. The rest seemed to be taking care of the horses and other camping-type stuff. She hated to camp.
Melinda tried to scream, but with the gag back in place, all she managed to do was make herself feel like she was going to barf any second. Somehow she managed to stand and wipe her face off on her shoulder. It was hard to breathe through her nose. It felt hot and swollen. There was dried blood crusted in the corner of her mouth. She could taste it over the foul gag.
“A saucy wench. Move aside and give me a taste.” The man she’d kicked pulled her down on the ground, removed the gag, and proceeded to inhale her face.
Stupid. Hadn’t he learned from his friend? Melinda bit his cheek. He howled in pain and slapped her across the face. Little unicorns and birds flew around in circles. Ice coated her insides. She managed to roll out from under him. Before she could stand and run, something cold pressed against her stinging cheek.
“Run and I will cut your pretty face from ear to ear.”
She froze on her hands and knees as if she were moving into a yoga pose. Very slowly she eased back on her heels, the knife never leaving her face. The tip of the blade pressing into her cheek. Melinda used to complain men saw her face first and never cared about her mind. She’d grumped to her friends how some days she wished she weren’t pretty.
Sorry, universe. I swear I didn’t mean it. I like my face. Please don’t let them hurt me.
Sweetness might work. It couldn’t hurt. “What are y’all doing out here? If you’d remove the sword, I would feel a whole lot better.”
The man cocked his head, spoke to the leader in that odd French, then sneered at her.
“You are alone, demoiselle. You come with us.” He moved the blade while the other one tied her hands in front of her, then tied her feet.
Thank goodness he didn’t notice she’d kicked the gag away. Great, just freaking great. Melinda filled her stomach with breath and pushed it out as far as she could, hoping it might give a tiny bit of slack as the man tied her to the tree.
The leader sneered at her. “Pleasure us well and we may let you live.”
She gulped. Not gonna happen. Melinda opened her mouth and let out her best horror-movie scream.
“Scream for me again, wench. Allow me the joy of cutting out your pretty green eye and sucking out the juices.”
Ick. How disgusting. She shut her mouth with a snap. This is what you get for making plans. Betcha didn’t plan on being kidnapped and ravaged by a group of horrible men. The voice in her head sounded so smug and self-righteous. This wouldn’t do. She had to get away and find out where and when she was.
While her captors ate lunch, she tested the ropes. There was a bit of slack around her, and she leaned back and forth, trying to stretch the rope. When one of the men looked her way, she pretended to be fascinated with the trees around her. He went back to eating and she worked on the knots around her wrists. There was no way she would be the dessert.
Chapter Eight
“Halt.” James swore he heard a woman scream. The feminine sound of distress carried across the wood. He’d seen enough of the horror women faced during battle. He would allow no harm to come to those on his land.
James urged the horse onward and into the wood to render aid. A young boy—no, ’twas a girl—ran through the woods, a look of fear upon her face. Five men chased her. Bandits from lands to the south, trying to steal from him again. This winter was not as severe as the past few; the terrible famine was now over and food was more plentiful. However, some men, once turned thief, foun
d the taste as filling as a cup of ale and would not turn back.
The witless female stopped and stood in the grass, gaping at him, mouth open, about to find her head separated from her shoulders.
He urged the horse to a gallop, metal screeching against metal as he unsheathed his sword, met the bandit’s blade, and saved the wench. The clang of swords rent the air as his men dispatched the ruffians. ’Twas over before James began to sweat. He leaned negligently against a tree, longing for one good fight.
Where was the feebleminded lass? He heard the sound of a wounded animal coming from the trees. James tied the horse to a tree. He moved through the woods and found her on the ground, curled up into a small ball. As if she could disappear if she made herself small enough. She sat in the snow, head in her hands, muttering strange words.
He knelt down beside her, grunting at the ache in his leg. James raised a hand to pat her shoulder, then stopped. He did not know how to soothe her tender feelings, so he clapped her on the shoulder.
“How do you fare?”
He cast a baleful eye over her while she babbled. Something gleamed like burnished metal in the weak afternoon sun. James reached down and picked up a lock of hair. She’d almost lost her pretty head.
The hair was glorious. Shades of copper, the red of a sunset, and the dark wine color of dried blood, which, oddly enough, he found quite beautiful. The coil wrapped around his finger, and when he pulled it out, the curl sprang back, curling around his finger as if it did not want to let go. Without thinking, he tucked the lock into a pouch at his waist.
James leaned close, gentling his voice. “My lady, are you injured?”
She spread her fingers, peeking through them, but did not answer. He spoke to her again, the pain in his legs threatening to topple him over as he crouched beside her. James prayed he would be able to stand without falling over and making a fool of himself.
She removed her hands from her face. Brilliant green eyes stared up at him.
“I can’t really understand you. Are you speaking French?”
She was speaking a form of English, though her speech sounded odd, the accent strange yet soothing. Soft. Caressing him like a lover.
“I inquired if you were injured, lady.”
She held up her hands and he could see the ropes binding them. With one swipe of his blade, the rope fell to the ground. He took her hands in his, anger filling him upon noting the angry red marks encircling her slim wrists. She had beautiful skin. Unmarked and unblemished, as fine as ivory. Realizing he was stroking circles on her wrist, he dropped her hands as if they were on fire.
“I don’t think…” She touched a hand to her cheek. “He nicked me, but it’s only a scratch. My nose hurts like crazy.”
James touched a finger to her cheek where the blade had left its mark. It was only a scratch, and she would heal. The nose was swollen but looked straight. He’d suffered many a broken nose, enough to know she was fine. There was dried blood above her lip. He wiped at it with his thumb, touching her lip. The skin was soft as a rose petal.
“’Tis fortunate you did not lose your head, lady.”
“I am rather attached to it.” She smiled at him. He felt strange inside, as if he’d been inside all winter locked in the dark and just stepped out into the light, blinking and marveling at the colors around him.
As he was wondering how he was going to manage to stand, his captain appeared by his side, sensing his distress. Renly helped them both up while making it look as if he wasn’t holding James up.
“Thank you for rescuing me. They were going to… Well, it doesn’t matter now that I’m safe.” She wrapped her arms around herself and, realizing she was freezing, James unclasped his cloak and settled it around her shoulders.
She placed a hand on his forearm. Heat from her touch traveled up his arm straight to his battered heart.
“I was wondering, could you tell me what day it is?”
His captain answered, “’Tis the fourteenth of February, my lady.”
“I hope you won’t think it’s weird, but could you also tell me the year?”
Renly gaped. James blinked. From her clothing, he surmised she was highborn, yet from her speech he wasn’t sure, unless she hailed from a distant land. But to ask him the year—mayhap she’d hit her head during the encounter. He decided to humor her.
“’Tis the year of our Lord 1327.”
“Oh. Um… Am I in France?”
How could she not know what country she was in? Was the girl witless? It would be his fate to meet such a fetching wench and have her be feeble. Perchance if she was, she might be the only wench in all the realm that would consider marrying a beast such as he. For she had not blubbered and run after looking upon his face. Certainly ’twas a good omen.
“Nay, lady. You are in England. On my lands. We are not far from Falconburg Castle.”
She heaved a great sigh of relief.
“Oh good. I know Falconburg. I was there earlier today.” Then she slapped a hand over her mouth, as if she shouldn’t have said such a thing. And all manner of alarm swept through him. Had she been sent by one of his many enemies? Perchance sent to taunt and torture him.
She reached out a hand to touch his face, and he flinched.
“You’re hurt. A cut.” She touched a finger to his eyebrow and held it up. It came away red. He reached a hand up to his face.
“’Tis naught but a scratch. Nothing to worry yourself over, my lady.” She would plague him. All women were afraid of him. He knew an enemy had sent her, for she showed no fear to get him to let down his guard. He must watch her and uncover whatever intrigue she was plotting.
“How did you come to be on my land, lady? Where is your escort?”
She was saved from answering when the falling snow turned to stinging sleet. The men were all mounted and ready to ride, except for his captain. Renly boosted the girl up onto James’ horse. He cupped his hands. James nodded, grateful for aid. His leg burned from kneeling so long, his shoulder pained him, and his head ached.
He sat behind her with a groan. “You can tell me how you came to be on my lands unescorted and in the clutches of bandits when we reach Falconburg. You need a warm drink and a bath.”
She was shivering. James wrapped his cloak around them both, pulling her against his chest to let his body warm her. She stiffened for a moment then relaxed.
James knew they were merely a short distance from the castle, yet it seemed to take a fortnight to reach home. She reached out to touch his face without recoiling in horror. Every other lady in the realm ran screaming. Did she truly not care what he looked like? James was suspicious of this woman who did not fear him. Was not affronted by his visage.
Truth be told, she vexed him. The fact she seemed to find him not pleasing but perchance acceptable made James wary.
What was she doing at his home? Had the men they encountered been a ruse? She needed to be careful, for he had encountered those men before. They would have assaulted her then left her for dead or killed her when they’d slaked their needs.
The lady traveled with no companions. James and his men saw no sign of anyone else. He expected to find a carriage or a horse, perhaps belongings. Yet they found nothing. ’Twas as if she’d sprung up from the grass fully formed and ready to cause him trouble.
The wench in question had fallen asleep against his chest. She breathed in noisily through her swollen nose, sounding like one of his dogs. Her hair was soft like silk against his chin. She was tall for a woman, and shapely. He felt her curves as she leaned against him. Found himself staring at her legs. What kind of woman went about wearing men’s hose? And her tunic. He had never seen such fine garments. He shifted in the saddle, trying to ease the pain in his hip, and by moving he woke her.
“Holy cow! Is that Falconburg?”
James was perplexed. She’d told him she came from his home earlier in the day, and yet her reaction bespoke of never seeing the castle before.
“Aye, lady.
”
She craned her head up to look at him. “It’s quite breathtaking, isn’t it? My name is Melinda. Melinda Merriweather.”
He was filled with pride that she found his home pleasing. “I am James Rivers. Lord Falconburg. You may call me James.”
“I can’t believe I’m really here.”
She seemed filled with joy at seeing his home. Being with him. And James was intrigued. He vowed to find out everything he could about Melinda Merriweather.
Chapter Nine
So far she’d lost the sapphire ring she’d found in the rubble, been abducted by a group of smelly men, knocked around a bit, and just when she thought she was going to die, he’d showed up.
Melinda had been so busy trying to escape that it took her a moment to process what was happening. The man, James, was unlike any man she’d ever seen back home. His thick black hair reached his shoulders and looked like it was long overdue for a trim. Yet it was his eyes that held her. They were a clear green that reminded her of the ocean. But on a man that would just be silly. And what a waste. She knew women who would kill for his eye color.
Melinda wasn’t sure if her body shaking was from the cold or the adrenaline wearing off. She’d never experienced anything of the sort before. The closest she’d come to violence had been when some teenage boy stole her parking spot during a downpour, making her ruin her favorite heels. Maybe coming to the past wasn’t the best idea. She frowned. No matter. Even with everything so far, she’d do it again if it meant finding Lucy.
She’d really done it. Gone back in time. Melinda made a face. She thought knights were supposed to be chivalrous. James hadn’t even helped her up on the horse; he just stood there watching her with a weird look on his face. She felt like an incompetent child as she tried to climb into the saddle. Come on, it’s not like everyone goes around riding horses every day. I’d like to see you drive a car. Barely, just barely, she managed to resist sticking her tongue out at her savior. Not very grateful behavior, but then again, he made her feel like a child scolded for coloring outside the lines. When that man, Renly, had helped her up, she wanted to hug him.
Knight Moves: Merriweather Sisters Time Travel (Merriweather Sisters Time Travel Romance Book 2) Page 5