"And you?"
"I?" His dark eyes narrowed, making her wonder if she'd stepped over some invisible line. Still, he'd been the one to kiss her, not the other way around, and she supposed she had a right to know.
"Yes you. Are you betrothed or," she stumbled over the strange word, "married?"
He laughed at that, a bitter sound so utterly devoid of humor that she shivered. "I am alone." He told her.
The wind, finding some hole somewhere by which to enter, shrieked through the cave as if in agreement. The fire sputtered, danced madly, and nearly went out.
"What a strange way to put it." She mused, shivering. "What about your family?"
The silence stretched on so long she wondered if he meant to ignore the question.
When he finally answered, his words were as bleak as the winter landscape outside. "My family is dead. All of them."
Stunned, Megan didn't know what to say. "I'm... sorry."
But he had turned back to the fire and if he heard her he gave no sign.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that all she'd eaten had been a cereal bar that morning. She'd been so worried and afraid about breaking up with Roger that she hadn't been able to eat much for days.
Roger terrified her. It had come slowly at first, the small slights, the put-downs, the sneers. When he'd begun hurting her, she'd slid into a kind of meek acceptance.
But recently she'd begun to realize she might be in even more grave danger. He'd begun pestering her to change her will. Then she knew she had to end things. Whatever Roger felt for her, Megan knew it wasn't love.
Now here she stood, feeling like she was starring in some old episode of The Twilight Zone, with a man who looked like Conan the Barbarian. Freezing her heinie off.
Despite the increasing weirdness of her situation, the thought made her smile. Maybe she really was dreaming. That would explain the change of season and the reason she'd responded so strongly to the kiss of a stranger.
A gorgeous stranger, she reminded herself, but a stranger nonetheless.
If it were a dream - and really, what other explanation could there be - she ought to enjoy it. Obviously, her subconscious had conjured up this hunk because he was exactly what she needed at this point in her life. He was nothing, she let herself eye him up and down, nothing whatsoever like Roger.
Thank God.
And until she woke up - if she woke up - and had to face her fiance's furious face, she might as well have a little fun. At the very least, this big warrior would keep her warm.
Bold thoughts for a coward. The plain truth of the matter was that Kenric of Blackston's kiss had left her hungry for more.
Still, trying to plot out one's own fantasy might be
easier thought of than done. This man, this warrior was one intimidating specimen. He had made it perfectly obvious he thought her slightly unbalanced, if not downright insane.
But she'd seen the hot look in his eyes as he'd perused her body, felt his arousal when he'd kissed her. Her own body tingled, her heart beat faster when she thought of it. She'd never felt like that before. She wanted to feel that way again.
If this wasn't a dream - and really, what else could it be - she was in trouble. Megan Potter, twenty-eight year old heiress and straitlaced socialite, desired a man who dressed in clothes more suited for some sort of playacting group, whose hair was longer than her own, and of whom she knew next to nothing.
But she had been engaged to Roger for nearly three years and he'd never, ever made her hunger for a kiss as this man had.
Working up her courage, she moved closer.
His shaggy head came up, his expression fierce and wary as he eyed her. "What do you want?"
Now or never.
"I want you to hold me." She managed to say in a strangled whisper, feeling her face heat.
Disbelief flashed across his rugged face. Then slowly, his gaze darkened and she saw the fire of passion heat his glittering eyes.
"Woman, be careful how you tempt me." He growled. "I have already told you--"
"No." Still blushing furiously, she struggled to find words to explain. Or an excuse. "It's cold."
"Cold?"
Like he hadn't noticed. Megan sighed. "I thought
maybe..." Heaven help her, she couldn't do it, even if this
was a dream. "Never mind."
"You thought perhaps the heat from my body would warm you?"
Miserable now, she shot him a look from beneath her lashes. As dreams went, this wasn't going exactly like she'd like. By now he should have swept her up in his muscular arms and kissed away any lingering doubts. Instead, he stood there glowering at her like she'd somehow insulted him.
"I said never mind." Turning her back to him, she shivered and held her hands out to the fire. She didn't remember ever being this uncomfortable in a dream either.
At precisely that moment an icy wind gusted through the cave opening, dumping wet snow on the small fire and putting it out.
"Perfect." Megan muttered. "Okay, that's it. I've had enough. Dream's over. It's time to wake up."
From behind her, she heard a muffled curse.
"Stop this foolishness." His gravely voice sounded weary. "We must make another fire, here in the back of the cave."
"But the smoke-"
"Breathing smoke is better than freezing to death."
To confirm his words, another icy draft whistled around the cave.
If he could pretend that she hadn't made a fool out of herself, so could she. Bowing her head, shivering so hard she could barely control her hands, she went to his stack and immediately grabbed up as much dry kindling as she could carry.
"Where do you want it?"
"There."
She could have sworn amusement flickered across his harsh features before he turned away to get more wood.
"Now what?" She didn't have a lighter, or even a match. And she'd never been a girl scout, so she had no idea how he meant to start another fire.
Ignoring her, he reached into a pouch and pulled out some sort of stone and scratched it on another. From a spark he coaxed another; before too long a small fire sputtered to life. Of course he would know how to start a fire. And she'd lay bets that he'd never been a boy scout either.
"Warm yourself. Then we will eat. I have bread and cheese."
Great. Now all that was missing was a jug of wine. Some dream, she thought with disgust. At least she could have conjured up a lobster or even a thick, juicy steak.
Though she was beginning to doubt that this actually was a dream. What else could have happened, she couldn't hazard a guess. One thing for sure, she was nowhere near Dallas, Texas. Nowhere near the good ole U.S. of A either.
The fire felt good, warming her still-frozen hands, though the heavy smoke that soon filled the small cave made her eyes water. Near the cave opening Kenric chipped away at the pile of snow. Hollowing out a tunnel, tamping and bracing it with rocks and sticks, she saw he'd created a chimney of sorts. At least until it filled with snow. It did alleviate some of the smoke, letting her breathe easier.
Megan watched as Kenric, muscles working, hefted blocks of stone into his makeshift chimney. With his leather clothing he looked like something out of a fantasy novel. She thought of Mel Gibson in the movie Braveheart and smiled. With looks like that, this Kenric had to be an actor or a model. Maybe one of her friends had hired him as a joke. Like Sarah Frazier, who nagged her every chance she got that Megan's life was too staid, too predictable.
This was not predictable. Her grin widened. Sarah's husband had plenty of money. Enough to create a blizzard in June. Maybe that was it.
But the chill in the air spoke more of a harsh northern winter than a snow machine in Texas. And Kenric could win an academy award for his performance, if that's what it was.
So, she continued to stare blindly at the man while he worked. She had to figure out what was going on. So far she'd eliminated a dream, eliminated a practical joke. Then what, exactly, had ha
ppened to her after she'd been hit by lightening? Had she even been hit by lightening?
First, she needed to ascertain the facts. Where this cave was located, the month, the year, the day.
"What year is it?" She blurted.
Kenric paused in his work to look at her, his piercing dark eyes inscrutable. "Did you hit your head?"
"No. Yes." Clasping the blanket around her, she drew nearer to the fire. "I can't remember the year, or the month."
"I see." His smile, when it came, was gorgeous. A movie star smile, turning her insides to mush. "It is December."
It had been June. "December? What year?"
"The year of our Lord 1072."
It took a moment for his words to register. When they did, Megan's knees went weak. "You're kidding, right?"
He stared blankly at her. "I do not understand your words."
"I... never mind." Now she did allow herself to sink to the ground, knowing her legs wouldn't support her another moment. No dream this, then what could it be? Medieval role-playing? In the middle of a blizzard, in some godforsaken cave? Somehow she doubted it.
Licking lips suddenly gone dry, she peered up at him, shivers still racking her body. "And where are we? Where is this place?"
His eyes narrowed, making him look dangerous. "The whereabouts of this cave need not concern you, milady. Suffice to say you are still on English land, once belonging to my family, granted by King William. Now it is occupied by another noble family. Before that," he paused, his mouth twisted, "it was Welsh."
Place. She pounced on the word. "Welsh, as in Wales?"
Obviously thinking she'd lost her mind, he gave a slow nod.
"King William?" She squeaked, still trying to digest his former statement.
His lip curled. "The English King. We won this land fairly from the Welsh. Despite their murderous attacks, the English still hold it, and will continue to do so. Where have you been, that you do not know this?"
"I told you. I'm American, from--" she stopped, remembering the country of America had not existed in 1072. Hell, Columbus hadn't even discovered the new world and wouldn't for another four hundred and twenty years. She wouldn't even be born for another nine hundred years.
Odd then, but Megan felt suddenly old, even for a twenty-eight year old North Dallas socialite. Elderly, even. Still, she had to take one last stab at a rational explanation.
"Are you with an escort service?"
He shook his head before she even finished. "Again, you use words which sound strange to me, even though I make allowances since it is plain from the way you speak that this is not your normal tongue."
He thought she spoke funny? She wished she could mimic his speech, but one thing she'd never taken the time to study was language. Any language, never mind some obscure and ancient form of old English like he seemed bent on using.
Though, if it really was 1072, Old English wasn't ancient. It wasn't even old.
"No." She whispered, rubbing her temples in hope of warding off the particularly violent headache she felt coming on. Right now she'd give anything for a couple of aspirin and a battery powered space heater.
"I thought not." He rummaged in a leather pouch and pulled out a small loaf of crusty bread and a shriveled meat of some sort, wrapped in cloth. "Do you wish to eat?"
Miserable, Megan nodded.
Tearing off some bread and cutting the cheese with a wicked looking dagger, he passed her a portion.
To her surprise, the bread tasted like the french bread she made in her bread maker and the meat, while chewy, had a smoky bite to it.
After she'd finished, she was relieved to feel the pressure in her head easing. Her shivering too seemed to have abated. With the fire to warm her, she felt almost comfortable. So she sat silent, watching Kenric eat. He ate with a savage dignity, though she would have imagined a man of his time would eat with less finesse.
Of his time. She nearly snorted out loud. She almost had herself believing that she'd somehow traveled back in time.
"Why are you here?" She blurted the question, still hoping he could somehow help her make sense of this crazy
situation.
He raised one eyebrow. "Here?"
"In this cave. Surely you have someplace else you could be. Someplace warm?"
His expression turned to ice. Too late, she remembered what he'd said about his family, about being alone.
"I have no home."
Odd, she remembered from her studies that most men, even peasants, belonged to some village, some castle, some Lord. Judging from the way this man acted, he was no peasant. She would have expected him to rule over some small kingdom or, at the very least, his own castle with his own army.
Though the harshness of his tone warned her against asking further questions, Megan persisted.
"This cave." She waved a hand around. "Is it your home full time, all year?"
He went still, looking for all the world like a ferocious lion about to pounce on unsuspecting prey. Which would be her.
Outside, the storm quieted. Even with the crackle of the fire, she thought she could hear his harsh intake of breath.
"Who sent you?" He stood, towering menacingly over her. "I would have truth from you now."
She refused to let him know how intimidating he appeared. He wasn't Roger. He wouldn't hit her. This was a dream. Only a dream.
"Calm down. Please. No one sent me. I don't even know how I wound up here."
"Speak English!" He growled, his eyes the color of slate. "What of this Roger? Where is his holding?"
Something told her she'd better play along. "He comes from a place far from here." There, that was a safe answer. And, she thought proudly, she hadn't lied.
"You call England far?" Disbelief warred with anger in his aristocratic features. "It but borders us here."
Since Megan didn't have a response for that, she said nothing. Suddenly she longed for her comfortable home in North Dallas, for central heat and air and electricity and telephones. For normal people.
There had to be some way out of this. There had to be.
"You've got to help me." She knew she sounded desperate, but didn't care. Even Roger, with his myriad cruelties, would almost be welcome. At least he was familiar.
"Help me find Roger. I'm sure he'll make certain you're rewarded."
She watched as the muscle-bound giant flashed a cynical look at her.
"What kind of trick is this?"
"No trick, I swear it." Even if Roger wasn't willing to pay this man once she got safely home, she had funds of her own. She could, and would pay, well.
His dark brows lowered. "This Roger, he is wealthy?"
She nearly laughed out loud with relief. Money. Even in the supposed year of 1072 it all came down to that. Things hadn't changed that much in nine hundred years.
"Roger owns his own--" she almost said "company". Instead she tried to find a word that Kenric could understand. "Keep?" Finishing for her, again Kenric looked furious.
Strange word, that. "Yes." Megan licked her lips. "He owns his own castle, er keep." Roger was nearly as wealthy as she was. The huge skyscraper on Stemmons Freeway could be considered a castle of sorts.
"Land?" He said it as if it were the most important thing in the world.
Since all of Roger's buildings sat on some very valuable, North Dallas land, she nodded.
"All my life I have wanted my own land." Kenric spoke quietly, almost under his breath. "I am bastard born, with no hope of inheriting. Even before my family was killed, I wanted my own land."
Then Megan knew what she would have to offer him, even if she couldn't quite deliver it. It was this land he wanted, acres and acres of rolling green pasture most likely, not some lake lot on Cedar Creek Lake, or industrial park in downtown Dallas. Something neither she nor Roger had any way of giving him. Still, she had no choice.
"Perhaps," her voice broke as she gagged on the lie, "Roger may reward you with some."
"His surname?"
She nearly choked. Luckily for her Roger was of English descent, though she had no idea if his name meant anything in this time.
"Spencer." She told him. "His name is Roger Spencer."
"Lord Roger Spencer?"
Swallowing again, she nodded. Roger, at least, thought he was some sort of royalty, judging from the way he expected everyone to jump to do his bidding.
Folding his muscular arms across his massive chest, Kenric's stare still seemed suspicious. "What proof have you?"
Proof. Great. She cast her mind back to every Medieval movie she'd ever seen or book she'd ever read. A token. He'd need some token from her as a pledge that she was indebted to him.
She stared at her hands, left hand, third finger, to be exact. Her engagement ring, the gaudily sparkling, pear shaped diamond that she hated winked up at her. In its elaborate setting of golden knots, flanked by oval sapphires, she'd always thought it a bit pretentious. Roger had chosen it, of course. He liked things flashy. Now though, it looked positively medieval, perfect for what she had to do.
Without further hesitation she slid the ring from her
finger and held it out. "I can give you this."
Slowly, he took it from her, causing her to notice how long and elegant his fingers were. Odd in such a big man. Turning it around in his hand, he examined it with the bored expression of a man used to fine things.
"Did he give this to you?"
She nodded, trying to remember the wording she should use. Not that she completely bought into this traveling back in time thing, but better safe than sorry.
"By this token he will know that I am indebted to you." Holding her breath, she prayed she'd said the right thing.
Evidently she had, for his thunderous expression lightened. He inclined his shaggy head regally and accepted her ring.
"When the storm clears, I will take you to this Roger. Until he is found, I will protect you."
CHAPTER THREE
Her heart stuttered at the brief contact of his fingers on her palm. Ah, if he only knew what he promised. "Thank you."
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