by Lynn Kurland
Now he felt very vulnerable. He didn't want to die. He had the feeling, however, that no amount of fast talking was going to influence the battle-seasoned warrior coming toward him with a grim-as-death expression on his face.
"Turn around."
"Are you going to stab me in the back?" Alex said with as much bravado as he could muster.
The man laughed shortly. "Watching you sneak looks at that bloody pot is giving me the urge myself, lad."
Alex felt his wrists come free of their bonds, and he groaned in spite of himself as the blood rushed back to his hands. He turned around.
"Thank you. I think."
The man actually smiled. He turned and walked toward the door, then looked back at Alex.
"George, formerly of York, lately of Falconberg at your service," he said, inclining his head.
"York?" Alex choked.
" 'Tis a rather large place," George offered. "Perhaps that is why we've never met."
"Right," Alex said weakly. "I'm sure that's it."
"I'd make use of that pot, my lad, before the lady Margaret returns."
"Great," Alex muttered. "I'll get comfortable just in time for her to cut off my head."
Sir George actually smiled. "Like as not, you'll talk your way out of that."
And with that, he was gone. Alex sighed in relief. One confrontation successfully negotiated.
He turned his back to the door and had no sooner applied himself to the task at hand when the door behind him opened and a woman gasped.
"Merciful saints above, you're untied!"
"And very busy, thank you," Alex threw over his shoulder. "Do you mind?"
The whisper of a blade coming from a sheath was answer enough.
"Lady Falconberg," he said, through gritted teeth, "let me pee in peace, would you?"
There were several other gasps, and Alex felt himself beginning to blush clear down to, well, down far enough. Wonderful. All he needed was an audience.
"Margaret, let the lad be," a well-worn voice said from the hallway. "I daresay he isn't going anywhere at the moment."
Thank heavens for Sir George and his understanding of the male persona. Alex finished, tucked himself away, did up the buttons of his jeans, and turned to face his audience.
There was Margaret, of course, and behind her a handful of servants. They were all staring at him with expressions varying from horror to intense interest. Margaret's fingers were twitching on her sword hilt. Alex almost commented on that when he saw that one of the less horrified-looking women was carrying what could have been mistaken for dinner. He gave her his most winsome smile.
"For me?" he asked hopefully.
The woman with the platter started forward, but Margaret stopped her by putting her sword out like a railroad crossing arm.
"Use your wits, Alice," Margaret said sharply. "There is a knife by his hand. Wish you to meet your end thusly?"
Well, that was irritating. Alex started to give Margaret a lecture on the finer points of his character, but he was cut off by a tremendous rumble in his stomach. No time for talk.
He yanked the dagger from the little bedside table and walked across the room. Ignoring Margaret's suddenly raised blade, he handed the dagger to her, hilt first.
"Now may I eat?" he asked politely.
Without waiting for an answer, he relieved Frances of the wooden board she carried and walked back to the bed. He set the board on the table and sat down. He didn't care who watched him. He didn't care what fate held in store for him. When it came to dinner, he never let anything distract him.
Lunch and dinner meetings had always been a total wash for him. How was he supposed to concentrate on piracy when smoked salmon fettuccine was demanding his full attention? Or when finely roasted fowl with little herbed veggies was sending little wafts of scent his nose's way? And at the moment he didn't care if Margaret had plans to use him to fertilize her garden. If she would just wait until he'd finished eating, he wouldn't argue with her.
"It looks like you have a better cook than Ralf," he said, looking over the roast chicken and planning his assault. "Vegetables, too. How nice."
He spared Margaret a glance and saw she was clutching her sword in one hand and what could have been used as an eating knife in the other. She didn't look as if she had any intentions of relaxing her death grip on either. Oh, well. When in Rome ...
He tore off a hunk of chicken and popped it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and chewed. Ah, looks were certainly not deceiving. The chicken was delicious. Nicely seasoned. It didn't contain much dirt that he could discover. Alex sampled everything, closing his eyes periodically to more fully enjoy the experience. He did look up once, just to see if there might be some sort of liquid to wash everything down with. A rotund woman was standing by the door, holding a bottle by its neck. She had on a food-splattered apron, and Alex wondered if she might be the cook. Now, this was a woman whose acquaintance he needed to make immediately.
He rose, ignoring Margaret's renewed bristling, and walked slowly across the room to the bottle-toting woman. He gave her his most innocent smile. He had several smiles in his repertoire. His favorite was his pirate's smile, but he had the feeling he'd better save that for Margaret later, while trying to talk his way out of losing his head. For now, innocent and faintly desperate would have to do.
"May I, good woman?" he said, holding out his hand and endeavoring to look thirsty.
The woman blushed and handed the bottle over without hesitation.
"Are you responsible for this heavenly meal?" he asked politely.
"Aye, milord," the woman said, beaming her approval on him. She was obviously someone who took it personally when bodies consumed her offerings with relish.
"If I thought I could," Alex said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I'd steal you away from Falconberg to come cook for me. You have a gift."
The woman blushed clear to the roots of her hair and turned toward the door.
"Out," she commanded her help. "He can't have had his fill yet. Down to the kitchens for something else!"
Margaret made a sound of intense disgust. Alex winked at her before he returned to his makeshift table, took a swig of wine, and applied himself to the rest of his dinner. He chewed and swallowed, methodically working his way down to bones and bare wooden plate.
When seconds came, he polished them off with just as much gusto. All right, so it wasn't the Four Seasons. It was better than anything he'd had so far in medieval England, and it was a far sight better than the unidentifiable gruel he'd subsisted on while haunting fifteenth-century Scotland with Jamie.
"Is it possible you've finished? Or should I search the larder for something else?"
Margaret was done watching him eat, it seemed. He took one last healthy swig of wine, then put the bottle down and pushed his table away.
"Finished. And it was delicious. Thank you."
She dismissed his apology with a frown. "I've heard last meals always do taste better than others."
Alex leaned back against the wooden headboard and looked at his captor. Margaret was tall and she looked very annoyed, but those were the only things Edward had gotten right. Whoever had started the rumor that Margaret of Falconberg was ugly needed to have his eyes checked.
Alex started his perusal at her feet. Her boots were scuffed and worn. This was a woman who meant business.
The thought crossed his mind that, had things been different, they would have made a very dangerous team. He had the feeling Margaret could be just as ruthless as he was. She had the scuff marks to prove it.
Leather cross-garters held her mail securely against her legs. That had to be less than comfortable, but she didn't seem to be shifting around as if she found it so. Her surcoat came down to her knees. It and a tunic covered her body, and, of course, more mail. It was virtually impossible to tell her shape.
But he could certainly look all he wanted to at her face. The woman was nothing short of beautiful. Her
hair was dark and pulled back off her face severely in a tight braid. It was long. He'd seen how far down her back it went. That had been a surprise. He would have expected her to have cut it off as it had to be a detriment in battle. He chewed on that very telling fact for a moment or two. For all her posturings as a warrior, Margaret still hadn't been able to give up that last concession to femininity. It was very interesting and he promised himself more thought on it later—when he'd managed to avoid the gallows.
He looked at her face again. What did she need with a lance when she could have knocked men over with her looks alone? He wondered if she had any idea just how appealing she was. Her eyes were dark, her lips full, her cheekbones beautifully sculpted. If she hadn't looked so incredibly irritated, he would have gotten to his feet, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her with every ounce of passion in his unprincipled pirate's soul.
"Are you quite finished?" she asked curtly.
Alex couldn't help but smile. "I could look all day, actually."
She bristled. Alex didn't think she could look any more offended, or ill-at-ease.
"If you had to defend this keep, you would also dress as I do," she bit out furiously.
Well, of course. Alex opened his mouth to say as much, but he wasn't fast enough.
"I will not be scorned by a prisoner!" she exclaimed. ''I care nothing for what you think. Look your fill, fool, and mock if you will. I'll be the last thing you see before I send you off to hell."
She waved her sword menacingly at him. Alex stared at her, suspicions blooming and blossoming in his mind. Well, there was definitely more to Margaret than he had thought. He turned her words over in his mind. Quickly. She wasn't moving yet, but her fingers were twitching. So, she thought he was mocking her. Was that what she got from her own household? Why should she care?
Alex had the feeling that underneath all that mail and bluster was a very frightened, very lonely young woman. A young woman who very possibly needed help.
Damn. There went his chivalry again, rearing its ugly head.
A body cannot come home until his task in the past is finished.
Well, maybe this was why he'd found himself in medieval England. Maybe it was nothing more than a chance to help someone who just didn't have anyone else to turn to. He gave Margaret his best tell-me-all-your-secrets attorney smile and patted the bed next to him.
"Come and sit. Let's talk."
She gasped in outrage. "What kind of fool do you take me for?"
"Tie my hands if it makes you feel any better. I just want to find out what you're up against. Maybe I can help."
"How? By betraying me to Brackwald?"
"I already told you I have no ties to Brackwald. Edward found me after you'd just about slit my throat and helped me by taking me to his hall. I have as little use for his brother as you do."
She hesitated. Alex could see the wheels turning. And then her sword lowered until it rested point down on the floor.
Alex scooted back on the bed and sat cross-legged with his hands resting in plain sight on his knees.
"I give you my word I won't move. At least pull up a chair. I'll bet you've been on your feet for hours."
"Since dawn yesterday," she said, then clamped her lips shut and glared at him.
Alex smiled to himself. This was one tough cookie.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
"Supper, last eve," she muttered. She looked at him in irritation, as if she wanted to behead him for even dredging that much out of her.
Alex got off the bed slowly. He held up his hands and carefully walked toward the door.
"Don't finish me off yet," he said. "You'll enjoy it much more on a full stomach, I'm sure."
He opened the door, faintly surprised she let him do it, poked his head outside, and bellowed for her cook.
The good woman couldn't have been far because she appeared at the top of the steps almost immediately.
"Aye, milord?" she asked breathlessly.
"Perhaps a meal for Lady Falconberg?"
"Aye, milord," she said, curtsying and propelling her substantial self back down the stairs.
Well, he had the older set all sewn up. Now, if he could just work the same magic on the younger. At least Margaret was still in the same place. She could have been advancing on him with blade bared.
Alex set up a table, pulled a chair up to it, and returned to his seat on the bed.
"Please sit, Margaret," he said. "I give you my word I won't move."
"And what good is your word?"
"Well, it hasn't been much good before, but I've turned over a new leaf. Made a change," he clarified at her puzzled look. "I'm not a liar."
"I daresay most all men are liars," she muttered. She sounded fairly convinced of that, but she had loosened her grip on her sword. Alex took that as a good sign.
"Maybe the ones you've known before. But I'm different."
He didn't want to get his hopes up, but she looked for the briefest of moments like she would have really liked to believe him. He could have sworn she was on the verge of coming across the room and sitting when the door burst open and Cook trundled in with a small contingent of kitchen help.
A meal was laid quickly and after another curtsy and blush, Cook departed, her helpers trailing after her like obedient sheep.
Where he had failed, food succeeded. Margaret came and sat. She laid her blade across the table and kept her knife in her hand.
"I'm very handy with this," she said, waving her dagger at him.
"I'm sure you are and I'll bet you've worked hard to become so."
She threw him a suspicious look, as if she weren't sure what the underlying meaning of that was, then turned to her meal and started to eat.
She wasn't enjoying it. Alex never let anything get in the way of good food, but Margaret obviously didn't have his finely honed skill. She chewed, but it was methodically and without enthusiasm.
"Not good?" he asked.
Margaret looked down at the wooden trencher and her expression was one of faint surprise, as if she hadn't really seen what she was consuming.
"'Tis edible."
Alex shook his head mentally. Poor kid. Maybe her face said twenty-five, but her eyes said fifty. Alex hardly dared speculate on the burdens she'd already been forced to bear in her short life. If what Edward had said was true, she'd been keeping a roof over her head and land-lusting men outside her gates for at least a year. Heaven only knew what kind of childhood she'd had. Had she ever just had time to play? Had she ever known the pleasure of beautiful clothes? Had anyone ever come to get to know her, just plain Margaret? What a waste!
Alex liked to think he wouldn't have been that stupid. If he'd been the baron's son next door, he would have dated her the moment he could, then showered her with every possible extravagance. He would have taken her traveling, shown her marvelous places, exposed her to exotic tastes and smells, heaped beautiful clothes and jewels on her until she was buried in them. He would have made her laugh. He would have stripped away her clothes until they were skin to skin, then he would have loved her, time and time again—
He rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head. Good grief, as if he really needed to get involved with anyone in the past! Especially a shieldmaiden who would just as soon skewer him as look at him twice.
He looked at her to find that she was watching him. Whatever she had seen in his face had obviously affected her, because she shoved her chair back and grabbed her sword.
"Fool," she snapped.
"Huh?" Alex said.
"I dress this way because I must," she hissed. "Who is it you think keeps this bloody roof over your head?''
"But—"
''Think you you could do the like?''
"Well—"
"And my father was very tall, too!"
"There's nothing wrong with—"
"I am not ungainly!"
And with that, she ran for the door, opened it, and slammed it home behind her.
<
br /> The key turned in the lock. Alex shook his head. Even distracted she was thorough.
He got up and began to pace. What a telling conversation that had been—one-sided though it was. Did she honestly think he looked at her and found her unattractive?
And, more important, did it really matter to her what he thought?
Well, at least she hadn't done him in. Maybe the next time he got within shouting distance of her, he would tell her that he didn't think she was ungainly. Even with her mail, she was very graceful. And he liked tall. Kissing short women gave him a neck ache.
Kissing?
He groaned. He was losing it. Margaret was not a woman to be trifled with. He couldn't make love to her and then walk.
And he would have to walk. Once he figured out what he was supposed to do, he would have to leave. And since he couldn't stay, that meant he couldn't get involved. He would do his best to help her, then he would round up Beast and head back to Scotland. Hopefully too much time hadn't passed in his own day. He didn't want Zachary getting a jump on him in wooing the grocer's daughter.
Though somehow, after seeing Margaret of Falconberg up close and personal, wooing Fiona MacAllister just didn't seem all that exciting. She wouldn't have been caught dead in chain mail. He had his doubts she could hold down the store, much less a fort.
But that was okay. He didn't have a fort to hold down. Nope, the twentieth century was the place for him, and he'd get back to it just as soon as he'd done his medieval duty.
The last thing he needed was a twelfth-century shield-maiden to complicate his life—and what a complication Margaret would be.
Six
Margaret dug her heels into her stallion's side and leaned forward, the lance balanced in her right hand. She struck the quintain directly in the center. She sat up a bit too quickly and lost her smug smile abruptly as the counterweight caught her full in the back. The blow sent her flying face-first off her horse. Fortunately it had not rained the night before, and she landed only in dirt, not mud.