Druid Knights 02: Knight of Rapture

by Ruth A. Casie

  “There’s something about him.” They hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen or so words and she was hungry for him. This was so not her. Intelligence and character drew her interest. She never let the physical drive her attraction, so why now? Why him? She stopped trying to figure it out and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I can’t describe it. I’m certain I know him.” She saw him handling the document.

  “Hey! Don’t touch that,” she barked, pointing to the parchment in his hand. Rebeka charged across the room but his stare stopped her in her tracks. He was a man who was not to be crossed. Her hesitation lasted one, maybe two heartbeats before she marched to the table. She didn’t intimidate easily. With her hand outstretched she requested the document. “This document is rare, hundreds of years old. You can’t just pick it up.”

  “Rebeka…” The trace of panic in George’s voice stopped her cold.

  “No, Hughes, she’s right.” Ignoring her hand, he placed the document back on the table. He’d handled the same document yesterday when he’d wrapped it in oilcloth and stored it away.

  “Thank you. They’re hard enough to translate. The last thing I need is someone destroying them.” The last six months had been difficult but this, the shock of being nothing to her, stabbed at his heart.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Rebeka.” They all turned toward the voice at the door.

  “Yes, Charles?” Rebeka said. From his formal appearance and reverent tone, he assumed the man was the steward.

  “Breakfast is served. Mr. George, your office is on the line.”

  “Ah, at last. I hope they’ve found the manor papers.” George turned to the steward. “I’ll take the call in the estate office.” He took a step toward the door but hesitated, his hand rubbing his neck. “Arik, don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back and take you for a tour of the place so you can get reacquainted.”

  “Charles,” Rebeka called to the steward as he was leaving. “Please tell Helen to set another place at the table.” She turned to Arik. “You’ll join us for breakfast, won’t you?”

  He hadn’t considered food for the past two days and found he had an appetite. A mug of ale, some cheese and bread would taste good. “I’d be pleased to join you,” he said with a nod.

  After all this time he wasn’t about to let her out of his sight.

  George left the room shaking his head. A mild panic raced through him. It almost made him laugh. In his own home with his wife and he’s…alarmed. But how can she not know him?

  “And what does this document contain?” His voice was heavy with indulgence, as if he was inviting a child to repeat their lesson. He had taught her about it and the secrets it held. Could he spark her memory?

  “This is a surveyor’s document, providing the placement of stones for some reason. These are runes.” She pointed to the alphabet on the top of the rolled document. “They’re an early form of writing predating Latin found as early as the Bronze Age, about 2900 BCE, and lasting until the Iron Age, about 1200 BCE. Over time, it was…” Her back straightened, the parchment poised in her hand. The knowledge she saw in his eyes gave him away. “You know all this, don’t you?”

  He watched the slow burn on her face. “Yes—but not from your academic viewpoint.” He took the document. She started to protest but he placed it onto the table and pointed to a rune. “This sigil indicates wards for protection. And this,” he pointed to another rune, “is the warder’s sign.” Without thinking, his thumb sought the absent signet on his ring finger. He let that idea go and instead concentrated on Rebeka. He was certain once she saw him she would remember him. He needed to know the how and when she lost her memory before he could figure out how to help her. He was certain Hughes had the answer.

  “Are you sure?” The wonder in her voice floated over his shoulder.

  Yes, he was certain. He was the warder. He’d created the sigil. He had drawn the map. Rolling the document, he placed it in the carrier and gave it to her. “Oh yes, I’m quite certain.” He noted the disbelief that crossed her beautiful features.

  “Sigil, a magical sign. Warding! This is an important document.” Her scowl reminded him of her first introductions to his world. She’d found his magick difficult to accept then, too. But she had accepted and learned his ways. It was her destiny to be a powerful sorceress. Greater than her mother, Ellyn. Right now he’d have a hard time convincing her of that.

  He didn’t take his eyes off her as she gathered the other documents and placed them into a waiting box. “Yes, it is.”

  She stood holding the overflowing box of documents.

  “When the document was created, it was very important.” Feeling very much the teacher, he took the box and followed her to the door. “Wards use the energy of the earth to protect something, in this case a place, Fayne Manor.”

  She took her staff from against the wall and they left the room. They passed the Great Hall and entered the library.

  He took a deep breath and smelled the leather of the bound books and oiled parchments. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. A tall ladder reached high to the upper bookshelves. He scanned the room, pleased to see the library had grown.

  It was his library that had brought them together. With one of the best libraries in England, he had believed the king had sent her to do research. After spending a short amount of time with her, he’d suspected James wanted to remove her from court. Her defiant attitude and beauty would make her a conquest for many of the king’s courtiers, especially if the king held her in high esteem.

  How wrong he had been. She was there to find her way back to the twenty-first century using his vast cache of druid documents. If her spirit was in any room, it was here. How many times over the past six months had he imagined her at this library table?

  “I’d like to continue our discussion but I have to get this all straightened before the visitors arrive.” She took the box from him, bringing him back to the moment, and placed it in a cabinet. Books lay in disarray on the table. Papers were everywhere.

  “You take care of the papers. I’ll put these away.” He didn’t wait for her answer. He took the books and put them on the shelves.

  “You can’t put them anyplace. I’ll never find them again.” She retrieved the book he had shelved then stopped. “How did you know where to put this?” she asked with a touch of confusion in her voice. He didn’t answer. He’d already stepped through the terrace doors—eager to see his domain.

  He stood gazing out at the garden admiring the view. He spotted the garden house with the large flat stone in front. While the house appeared to be familiar, the small house had been enlarged. It must contain several rooms. He was in a foreign place that breathed with familiarity. It was an odd sensation. He tried to distance himself from the changes but in his heart he couldn’t. But he’d get by. He’d have to.

  “Has the manor changed much since you were last here?” she asked, standing beside him.

  Her soft voice sent a ripple of delight through him. He folded his arms across his chest to prevent himself from putting them around her. He sensed more than saw her follow his gaze. “In some ways, yes, and in other ways it’s much the same.” He kept his eyes straight ahead and tried not to think about the difference.

  “Ms. Rebeka, breakfast is served.” Charles stood at the terrace door.

  “Shall we?” Rebeka asked him.

  He nodded and she led the way.

  Chapter Eight

  Dishes lay broken, their contents strewn over the floor. Out of the corner of his eye Arik watched George skid to a halt by the breakfast table.

  “Forgive me, Trudy, I must ring off,” George spoke into the device and slipped it into his breeches. “What’s going on?”

  Rebeka was on her feet, pushing the wrought-iron chair out from under her with the backs of her knees. She sent the chair scraping along the slate terrace floor. The back legs caught on an uneven stone and tipped over. At the same time she grabbed Arik by the collar with both hands.

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p; He gave her no resistance but flowed with her movements to minimize the impact. He brought his hands up between hers, circled them out and under. The movement forced her to release her grip. He caught her wrists with ease and held her captive.

  He took a deep breath to quell the last strains of the berserker pulsing through him. But his purpose was accomplished. “She was going to eat those?” he said to George, nodding at the broken plate on the patio floor.

  He didn’t know which drove him more, anger or fear.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Rebeka demanded. Her eyes were slits of dark agate and her stance fierce. “He lunged across the table,” she said to George, “and swatted the food out of my hand. Then he tossed the plate. Who knows what he would’ve done if I hadn’t stopped him?”

  “Both of you relax. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.” Was the man insane? She was going to eat those, those love apples. If he hadn’t been here—he didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened.

  He noted George’s slight nod and released Rebeka. She flexed her hands and rubbed her wrists. A woman, a servant he suspected, rushed in and busied herself cleaning the mess.

  “Even a child knows not to eat poisonous love apples.” His clipped speech was coated in a rime of ice. He didn’t miss the flash of relief scurry across George’s face.

  “Ah, I understand. Good show.” He pounded Arik’s back. “I know I told you we live a seventeenth-century lifestyle here, but for the public, not in private.”

  He followed George’s eyes as they shifted to Rebeka. A sense of unease crept up his spine. The barrister appeared not to be concerned. It was obvious everyone knew some great secret except him and he didn’t like it one bit.

  “As you can see, this is an ordinary twenty-first-century breakfast: eggs, oatmeal, fresh bread, fruit, coffee and grilled tomatoes.” George leaned in and lowered his voiced. “Not love apples, which are not poisonous.”

  “Lord Arik?” He detected the surprised gasp in the voice in front of him.

  “Yes?” He scrutinized the servant. “Is there something amiss?” His tone demanded a reply. What else didn’t he know? He waited on tenterhooks for what would come next.

  The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, her speech stumbled when she tried to speak. “Begging your pardon, sir. You look like the man in the picture hanging in the library. For a moment, with your clothes and all, I thought you were the great lord himself returned these many centuries.” His picture? In the library? Where Rebeka spent most of her time. That was interesting. The servant left the room shaking her head, carrying out the broken pottery and spilled food.

  Rebeka scrutinized his face as if she were investigating one of her documents. “Come to think of it, Helen’s right. That must be why I had the idea that we’d met. He does look like the picture.” Something in her eyes told him she was holding back information. What that was, he didn’t know, but he’d find out. Finding out things was one of his best skills.

  She tossed her head, sending her hair flying around her. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. For a minute, I believed I was going crazy. And, Arik,” she said, righting the chair and taking her seat, “you’re a good performer. You acted as if you really believed I was about to eat poison. Next time, please don’t carry this seventeenth-century idea so far.” George gave her a fresh plate filled with eggs. She waved him off when he started to serve her tomatoes.

  “Well, I don’t know about you but I’m starved.” George rubbed his hands together as he took his seat, his own plate brimming with breakfast. “What do you say we finish eating?”

  The servant came back with a carafe of fresh hot coffee.

  “Helen, a mug of watered ale for Lord Arik. He likes it at room temperature,” Rebeka said.

  He was startled by her suggestion. The surprise on George’s face mirrored his own. Did she remember how he liked his ale? George bent over to Rebeka. “How do you know how he likes his ale?” he whispered.

  Her eyes shone with delight. She bent to George’s ear. “It’s the seventeenth-century beverage of choice.” Her playfulness made Arik smile. He recognized her spirit. If she would simply recognize him. He took a deep breath. The besotted Grand Master was in for a challenge. One he was determined not to lose. She faced Arik. “A peace offering, m’lord.” She gave him a brilliant smile.

  Helen returned and stood next to him. He watched her pour ale. “I hope this is the way you like your ale, m’lord.” There was no pretense or falseness in her tone or actions. In his world, his life depended on knowing who was friend or foe. Each new situation called for caution and careful judgment. Here was no different. If anything, not knowing the rules here put him at a definite disadvantage. Where to begin? The way he did when he met new circumstances at home, with caution and staying alert.

  She set a plate of scones with clotted cream before George. “Thank you, Helen.” George slathered the clotted cream on his scone, a wide smile on the man’s face.

  “For my champion.” Rebeka toasted Arik with her drink.

  “M’lady.” He raised his ale. “You honor me.” He drank in the sight of her along with his ale. The months of not knowing if she was well, not knowing where she was, faded. It wasn’t how he expected it would be but at last he was sitting at his table, with his Rebeka.

  “Did Trudy have any new information about the Trust?” Rebeka filled her cup.

  “At last, she got the court papers and is faxing them here for my review.” George popped the last bit of scone into his mouth and licked the clotted cream from his lips. “I’ll see to them when I’m done.” He turned to Arik. “You don’t mind if Rebeka takes you for a tour?” George shot a look to Rebeka. “You have time, don’t you?”

  “I have some time before my first class.” She drained her drink, washing down the last of her toast and raspberry jam.

  His eyes were drawn to the single drop of jam that stained her lip. His body thrummed with an overwhelming urge to lick it off but she beat him to it. Faith, he needed a distraction. “Class?” He coughed, trying to regain some sense of composure.

  “Yes, I’m a professor at Kensington University in the United States. I’ve established a study center here at Fayne Manor for graduate students in conjunction with Oxford University’s Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies.”

  “She won’t tell you, but the program is doing quite well,” George said. Her humility and success didn’t surprise him. It was a deep part of her character.

  “And your specialty?” he asked, finishing his ale. He knew all about her teaching. A woman in academia had been new to him and that had been the start. The things she’d told him about the past four centuries were more fantastic than any magick he could show her.

  “I prefer the outdoors and flora of the era. My thesis was Public, Private and Pastoral Practices Employing Herbs in Medieval England. We found an herb garden behind the old cottage and will be restoring it as part of our plan for the manor.”

  Starved for the sound of her voice all these months, he made small talk to keep her chatting. Perhaps, by some miracle, she would remember. He observed her objectively, if that was possible. He had never known a woman who was so outspoken, fearless and determined to be self-sufficient.

  How she had tested his patience when she first came to his Fayne Manor. They’d seemed to always be on opposing sides of an issue. But there had been a difference after she planted the herb garden and created the herbarium. It must have been her teaching ways. She had shared her knowledge with everyone and endeared herself to his people and family. She had become part of the manor fabric. And before long she had woven herself into the weft and warp of his life.

  “I think reviving the herb garden would be a good project for the students. They could stock and manage the herbarium. Besides, it would add to the authenticity of the manor.” She was at the table, her fingers around her mug.

  “Good, that’s settled,” George said, reaching for his cup.
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br />   “Mr. George.” Charles approached the table. “A fax has arrived for you. I’ve put it in the estate office.”

  “Thank you, Charles.” George ate the last of the scone and stood. “I leave you in good hands,” he said to Arik. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll meet you as soon as I’m finished.” He left the room.

  Arik stood and tossed his napkin on the table. “Excuse me,” he mumbled as he followed George out of the room.

  “George,” Arik commanded.

  “Lower your voice,” George whispered, raising his finger to his lips.

  Arik was caught short by George’s demand. “I want to know what happened to her memory.” Arik followed George toward the estate office.

  George stopped in front of the door. “Bran. No memories. I have to go. I’ll speak to you when I’m done here.” He started to open the door and turned to Arik. “Spend some time with her. Let her show you around. Let her get to know you, again.” He entered the estate office and closed the door.

  George left him with his mouth gaping open, staring at the closed door. Dismissal was not something he was used to. Perhaps she came out of the portal without her memories. No, he believed it was more serious than that. He returned to the Great Hall. Rebeka was finishing her breakfast.

  “If you’re ready?” Arik said. It was more a command than a question but she didn’t appear to mind.

  She was at the door a pace behind him and took her walking stick.

  “The etchings appear intricate and well done. Do you take it with you everywhere?” he asked, motioning to her staff.

  She studied her staff and turned toward him. “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you know what it says?” He touched an ornate group of runes. He winced at the icy sensation that stung his hand.

  “It is an old prophecy. It’s difficult to read. It has something to do with knowledge and strength.” He had hoped she’d remember how to unlock the meaning of the runes. Another lesson she would need to relearn.