Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance)

by Diane Darcy

  She lifted a shoulder. “I like New York. It’s home. Where else am I going to go? Besides, as I said, I’m only twenty-eight.”

  “But you’ve been working in the field since you were nine.”

  She grinned at him. “Thanks to you.”

  He raised a brow. “Should I regret dragging you all over the world?”

  “Why would you? I don’t, and you know it. You gave me the best and most interesting life a girl could ever have.” Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and she turned her head away.

  He breathed in as he studied her for a moment. “If your parents hadn’t died, things would have been different for you.”

  “I’d only be further behind in my career. I was born to do this, same as you.”

  A slight smile tugged at his lips and he nodded.

  She glanced around the room, taking in the tray of uneaten food, the remote controls on the quilt, and the unusual tidiness. Even his Maori masks were hung and well dusted. “How’s it going here at home?”

  “The nurse is an idiot. The man can’t play a decent game of chess.”

  “No?”

  “You played a better game at twelve.” He studied her expression. “What is it? You look—”

  She let out the grin she’d been holding back. “Happy? Excited? Ecstatic?”

  “Have you met a boy, then?” he teased.

  “You could say that.”

  “About time, isn’t it?” he said, but he studied her, waiting.

  She laughed and the sound, genuine and excited, finally got a reluctant smile out of him.

  “So who is he?”

  “Ian MacGregor.”

  Grandpa snorted. “Himself, is it then?” he said in a fake Scottish accent. “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”

  She grinned and leaned forward in her chair as she tried to figure out the best way to tell him.

  He waited, his eyes gleaming. “What is it, girl?”

  She took a breath. “Grandfather.” She paused as she anticipated his reaction, as her own excitement threatened to overwhelm her. “I’ve found it.”

  “Found what, exactly?” he said the words carefully, his gaze watchful.

  “The crown. The Crown of Scotland. At least I think I did.”

  He sat up straighter. “Say again?”

  Meeting his gaze, she grinned. He’d always been fascinated by the crown, by what could have happened to it, and they’d spent many a night over a game of chess, debating where it could have gone. Who had taken it? Where had it ended up? Did it even exist anymore, or had it been melted and sold piece by piece long ago? In a swift motion she rubbed her hands together. “Historians used to claim Ian MacGregor had it, right?”

  Grandfather’s eyes shone bright with interest. “Correct. He was originally a likely candidate. The crown disappeared when he left the king and took over Inverdeem as laird. A favor the king granted as his blood-right even though MacGregor was illegitimate. But his dying always looked suspicious, and eventually it was believed the king may have had a hand in it.” Grandfather shrugged. “So historians started thinking, the king giveth and the king taketh away.”

  Samantha took a folder from her satchel and removed her notes and some photos. “Remember the monument in the middle of the village outside Inverdeem Castle?”

  “The big rock? Of course. What about it?”

  Samantha turned the photos around and showed him first the monument, then a close up of the small birds carved into the front; some barely visible, some likely faded away completely. Finally she handed him the enlarged photo of the side of the monument. “These three marks aren’t more birds, Grandpa, they’re claws.” She drew her finger to fill in the faded areas. “And the claws are set off by themselves, on the side of the monument, near the base. Do you see it?”

  He turned on his reading lamp, reached for his glasses, and took the enlarged photo. He studied it for a long moment, then reached for the others and examined them closely before looking at the claws again. Finally, he looked up. “A lion’s paw? The king’s emblem?”

  Suddenly unsure, she rushed into speech, telling him things he already knew, but needing to say them out loud, to state her case. “As you said, Ian MacGregor had originally been high on everyone’s list of suspects for who took the crown. He died only a few months after becoming laird. Just long enough for him to hide the crown, but not really long enough to have sold it off. Not in that time period. There are writings that tell of the king’s men doing a thorough search of the castle, going so far as to break down walls. At the time, no one knew why. It wasn’t until later historians put together the thought that the crown disappeared after Ian MacGregor’s death and maybe he’d stolen it and been punished by the king. But when explorations didn’t recover it, in any century, everyone gave up the theory. The fact that he was half-English with strong ties to England sort of nixed the idea for most. But, Grandpa, I think it’s still there.”

  “Because?”

  “I got to thinking there are such contradictory stories about MacGregor. He’d been a bodyguard for the king and was granted land, or, the king didn’t trust him and killed him and tore his castle apart. He was known to be harsh but fair, but by other accounts sly and sneaky. He may or may not have been a spy for the English. So which is it? His tournament wins suggest he was a great fighter. By some accounts he was a man’s man, big in stature, a bodyguard. And the king did grant him his family lands. So I thought, what if the king had taken a liking to him? Had trusted him?”

  He looked at the picture, tilting his glasses so he could see better, and smiled slightly. “Oh, you tricky, tricky Scot.” He looked up. “It would be just like him to hide the thing in plain sight.” He huffed out a laugh. “How long have you worked on this?”

  “Two years, on and off. I started with the castle and the grounds, and eliminated hiding places one by one. I eventually ended up in the village.” It hadn’t been hard. She’d never admit it to her grandfather—he already teased her enough about it—but digging into the man’s life had become both a pleasure and a distraction.

  As contradictory as the accounts of his character were, everyone pretty much agreed the man was a head taller than most, with thick dark hair that fell down his back, braided more often than not. It was rumored his face was so pretty he wore a beard to hide his features from the ladies at court. An extremely good fighter, by all accounts he was a hard man to best. Sneaky and sly had been applied to his character, and while he’d been both those things, he’d been intelligent. Not the type to steal from the hand that fed him.

  Watching her grandfather read her notes, she sat back, and waited for his verdict. He read for ten more minutes, and then slowly took off his glasses. “When do you leave for Scotland? Why aren’t you already on an airplane?”

  She laughed, hugged him, and kissed his cheek. “I leave tomorrow. We have that fundraiser at the university tonight. I have a fancy black dress and everything. I have to show up to win friends and influence people. If I don’t, I’m fired. My boss was clear on that.”

  He waved the folder in the air. “They can’t fire you. You dig up the crown and they wouldn’t dare. They’ll be kissing your feet for the prestige, grants, and donations it’ll bring to the university. Everyone likes to back a winner.”

  “If I dig up the crown.”

  Eyes as sharp as ever—and interested, thank goodness—he studied her face, and then nodded slowly. “You’re right. Nothing is ever certain. 750 years is a long time. If it really was there, it could be long gone, melted down and turned into anything.”

  “I’ve asked for time off starting tomorrow. I have so much leave accrued they didn’t dare turn me down. I’m actually going tonight, right after the fundraiser.”

  Visibly tired, Grandpa leaned back against the pillows again. “Oh, Digger, how I envy you.”

  Samantha smiled at the old nickname, given to her when she’d accompanied him on her first dig to Asia Minor at the age of nine and
promptly gotten to work.

  He smiled. “I’m proud of you, you know?”

  Her chest tightened. “I know.”

  “Try and meet someone, will you? I don’t want you to be alone after I’m gone. What happened to that nice young man you were seeing?”

  “It didn’t work out.” It never did. She just wasn’t the sort of girl that guys went for. Too straightforward, too obsessed with her work, too out of touch with modern culture, she supposed.

  “Don’t you worry. You’ll find someone. But try and find someone living, eh?” He lifted her notes. “This attachment you have to Ian MacGregor won’t get you a husband and children.”

  She laughed, and felt her face warming. “He’s a lot more interesting than most of the guys I’ve dated.”

  “Wily is the word I’d use. But don’t you worry. You’ll find someone in the here and now. You’re too beautiful and hardworking not to.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “Too bad you’re the only one who sees me that way.”

  “You’re the last of our line. You have to find someone sometime. It’s your duty. You say you’re leaving tonight?”

  “I’m already packed and have all the permits. We start digging in three days.” She paused. Swallowed hard. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

  He drew in a deep breath, then let it out as he stared at the blank TV across the room. “I’m not sure, Digger.”

  She gulped and sudden tears flooded her eyes as she realized that with the advice he’d been giving, he’d been saying goodbye. “But—”

  “I’m ready to go.” His brown-eyed gaze met hers. “I think it’s time, don’t you?”

  “But what about the crown? It’s the find of a lifetime. If you’re not here when I get back...” More tears filled her eyes and she sniffed. “Maybe I should wait.”

  He laughed softly. “As if I’d let you.” After a long moment in which neither of them spoke, he sighed. “You’re so much trouble. Too smart for your own good. I never should have taken you in. After your parents died, I should have placed you with some nice family and given you young parents. If I had, you’d be married with two kids, not traipsing around the world, and worrying about me. I ruined you. You should have been playing with dolls, not digging up bodies.”

  She laughed through her tears at the old, familiar rant. “So in lieu of these great parents I missed out on, will you be here?”

  He blew out a breath. “I’ll be here. I’ve got to see the crown, don’t I?”

  She leaned forward and kissed his soft forehead. “You really do, Grandpa. You don’t want to miss this.” She clearly saw his fragility and weakness. She thought about the time involved, the bureaucracy, and the fact that all he could ever really see would be photos. Scotland wouldn’t hand over its treasures, and he couldn’t fly there. “Do you know what? Hang the permits. I’m going to go and dig up the crown and bring it back here with no one the wiser. I can always rebury it, and find the blasted thing again, right? You are going to see it before you go, and hold it in your hands. That’s a promise.”

  His brows drew together. “Now, Sammi. I taught you better than that.” His tone chided, but the sparkle in his eyes gave her hope. He’d caught the scent, same as her, and it would give him something to live for, a reason to wait.

  “I promise I’ll document.” She quickly stood. “Now, I’m off to give a speech, then off to Scotland. Don’t go until I get back. Promise me.”

  He nodded once, then settled back with a sigh. “I promise.” He gave her a slight smile. “In the meantime, say hello to Ian MacGregor for me, will you?”

  ~~~

  Scotland, 1260:

  Ian MacGregor told his men they were there to steal cattle. Of course, the true reason they waited outside on a late summer’s eve was to give his men a chance to kill him. Not that he’d make it easy. There would likely be more than one corpse on the ground come morning. Though not his. One fact was certain—this ended tonight.

  He was weary of it. Weary of feeding food to the dogs to check for poison before eating. Irritated by the whisperings of his own blasted men. Annoyed by the warding branches, the charms, the devil’s fern planted at his front door.

  He’d not have his own people safeguarding themselves against him, nor would he overlook the tickle on the back of his neck when his men stood behind. He’d have their respect and their loyalty, or heads would roll.

  Fortunately, the Campbells delivered the perfect opportunity to test his men, and to release tension. They were the main suspects in last week’s raid—mainly because Mad Malcolm was the only one barmy enough to try him. The scabby clag-tails waited until Ian and half his men had gone to see Laird Grenock about trading supplies for winter. Then they’d attacked. To teach the miscreants a lesson, they’d retrieve their cattle, and then some.

  Anyhow, he needed to keep his men keen, sharp, and battle ready. The training he’d given in the months he’d been laird honed their skills and they were anxious to challenge themselves; and hoping for payback in the bargain. All the same, this wasn’t to be a slaughter, but a raid, else they’d be fighting amongst their neighbors for years to come.

  So there they sat, hidden and silent, on well-trained horses at the tree line, blending with the landscape as they overlooked the village and cattle. The half-moon shed enough light to reveal the fields and homes below, but not so much as to expose them before they descended.

  His cousin, seated to his right, studied trees and bushes for sign of Campbells, excitement lighting his features. It could be any or even all of his men intent on murder, but his suspicions landed squarely upon Brecken, set to inherit until King Alexander proclaimed Ian his father’s blood and successor. The young man had never complained, but the loss would be a blow to any man, surely.

  In the king’s court, at least, Ian had known his enemies and could see them coming. But upon his father’s death, the king insisted upon his return to this accursed place. No doubt the Comyns and Durwards had a hand in it. They’d resented anyone having influence over the king but themselves and convinced his highness that someone with Ian’s loyalty could better serve him by taking over this strategic location.

  When Ian arrived, he’d wished to turn the land back to his cousin. What cared he for his supposed clan? He’d barely be welcome if the fever hadn’t taken his father, father’s wife, and two legitimate sons earlier in the year. If the king’s boot hadn’t been firmly planted to his neck, he might well have relinquished all.

  But, like or not, the king did insist. And these people were his blood. He’d come to realize—whether the clan knew it or not—they needed him. Besides, he’d no place else to go. He couldn’t return to the king, and despite his mixed blood, he’d never tolerated England. This place was his by right of blood, no matter that some might say otherwise. Or mayhap it was simply pure stubbornness keeping him in place. They didn’t want him? Too bad.

  Brecken’s mount fidgeted, no doubt sensing the excitement of the rider.

  “Hold yourself, cousin.” Ian kept his tone low.

  “A few minutes more ’til we attack?” Brecken whispered.

  “Mm.” Ian merely grunted.

  Brecken licked his lips. “Think you they have a priest in the village?” he whispered. “One we could merely borrow for a time?”

  Ian turned a stony-eyed gaze on his cousin. “And have him burn your sweetheart in the village square? I think not. A priest wouldna last even a day ere he made it to Inverdeem, would he?”

  Brecken’s shoulders slumped. “Just for a day or so. After, we could take him back. He wouldn’t have to stay long and we could treat him poorly if you like.”

  Ian sighed. In the months since he’d driven out the last priest, the two newly married couples had handfasted for lack of clergy. Traveling alone was too dangerous an attempt, so the couples settled. Ian refused to feel guilty that Brecken’s choice of wife disinclined to have him until a priest could be found. ’Twas not his problem.

&n
bsp; Put a power-hungry priest in place and see the murdering, raping, and thievery like to arise. Besides, if they all feared sin and everlasting fire so much, perhaps they should cease trying to kill him before their immortal souls were jeopardized by murder.

  Of course, as they thought him the devil, perhaps they simply hoped to send him home. And mayhap they had the right of it. He’d single-mindedly honed his skills, and, when still considered a lad, he’d found and gutted the priest who’d killed his mother. With none the wiser. All without a qualm. Justice meted.

  He lifted his shoulders, shrugging off the issue. He had other business to concern him. Like taking the most likely suspects raiding, and letting them accept their fates.

  So far, none had worked the courage to attempt the deed, but he suspected Brecken was close. Let the boy act against him. Let them all attack at once and see what joy they received for their troubles.

  “Somethin’ amuses you?”

  Ian turned to the man astride the horse to his left. Dugald McClintock, his second, and no relation to any man there, was a tough, strong fighter, and had been at his side for years. Close in age, Ian bested the brute in several tourneys and they’d ended up traveling side-by-side for safety. The time spent together had turned into friendship, and Dugald was the only one present Ian trusted. Tall, broad of shoulder, body wiry and tough, he’d been with Ian through war, tourneys, the king’s court, and now here. So far, Dugald wasn’t overly impressed with Ian’s family. No surprise there. Neither was he.

  “Contemplating a nice, juicy steak for dinner?” Dugald spoke softly.

  Ian smiled. “Aye. If I’ve the stomach for it after this night.”

  Dugald sent a look of understanding. After three attempts on Ian’s life, both men were eager to expose the culprit. Brecken? Hired spies sent from the Comyns or the Durwards? He hesitated to suspect his own clan, but he must. He’d no intention of becoming a pin pillow for any man’s dagger this night.